by Glyn Iliffe
‘From Heracles?’ she asked. ‘He wouldn’t have known any more than the rest of us.’
‘Maybe not, but I needed to see if anything was left of the master I loved and respected.’
Megara’s smile faded.
‘And what did you find?’
‘A good man, Megara. Unsure of who he is any more, and haunted by grief and guilt at what he’s done; but a good man, nonetheless. A man I would follow into the depths of Hades, if he asked me to.’
Megara looked down at the floor, avoiding Iolaus’s eye.
‘I went to see him last night.’
‘I know you did. He told me about the mushrooms.’
‘And how is he?’ she asked, staring up at him. ‘How is he handling it?’
‘He’s confused – dazed perhaps. He’s spent months thinking he killed his children out of the evil in his own heart, and now he learns he was drugged by an unknown enemy. The truth will soak through that hard outer crust of his soon enough, and then the burden of guilt will grow lighter. And when that happens, he’ll be sitting on his terrible rage until he finds out who did this to him.’
‘Is that why you’ve come?’ Megara asked. ‘To find out who gave him the mushrooms?’
Iolaus looked around the courtyard. The slave had led his chariot away and was busily removing the horses from the yoke, while a second stood ready to feed and water them. Another, older man – whom he recognized as one of Megara’s own household slaves – was still loading provisions onto the back of the wagon. None seemed to be paying attention to their conversation.
‘I came to see you, Megara,’ he said. ‘You’re my aunt, and you’re eight years older than me; yet you’re more like a friend. I care about you and I would’ve hated not to have seen you before you returned home. If nothing else, I at least wanted to say sorry for disappearing without telling you where I’d gone.’
‘But you haven’t,’ she said.
‘Haven’t what?’
‘Said sorry, of course.’
He smiled.
‘I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?’
She leaned over and kissed him on his whiskered cheek. He felt the momentary warmth of her lips on his skin and wanted it to last longer. Then she pulled away, and he could not look her in the eye.
‘You don’t need to ask that,’ she said. ‘But I’m not a fool. You are here to find out what I know, aren’t you?’
‘That, too. Whoever drugged Heracles wanted him to murder his family. They hoped he’d take his own life out of grief and shame, or be executed for his crime by your father. I want to know who it was, so justice can be done.’
‘Did Heracles send you?’
‘No. He barely spoke last night, so I’d hoped you might give me a few more answers. Do you have any idea who did this?’
She gave an ironic laugh.
‘Hera? Heracles always feared she would try to spite him, if only because he’s the product of her husband’s adultery. But why accuse the gods? My husband has enough enemies among men – he has killed more than his share of fathers, brothers and sons, not to mention the wives, daughters and sisters he has slept with.’ She sighed. ‘It could be anybody, Iolaus, and the mushrooms are the only clue. Whoever’s responsible, they didn’t want to risk an open attack, or even hire an assassin’s dagger. They wanted certainty of success, with nothing to point to their own involvement. Indeed, if you hadn’t deflected his sword, Heracles would have taken his own life and we’d all be believing he succumbed to a madness sent by the gods. As it is, you arrived just in time, and I discovered those mushrooms. Other than that, though, we have nothing to go on – except that they were in Thebes that night.’
‘Heracles won’t rest until he finds out who destroyed his life,’ Iolaus said. ‘Neither will I.’
‘And you think I will?’ Megara asked. ‘You think I will ever forget the sight of my dead children? Or ever forgive the one who did that to them! To me !’
There was a flash of fire in her eyes, but it was quickly doused by the tears that followed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Iolaus said, drawing her into an embrace. ‘How stupid of me. I didn’t mean to suggest––’
‘I know you didn’t,’ she said, drying her eyes.
He released her and stood back. The sun had risen over the mountains now and was casting long shadows across the courtyard.
‘I must go back before Heracles wonders where I am. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?’
‘Only one thing. After I realized Heracles had been drugged, I asked the cook how she came by the mushrooms. She said the housekeeper bought them from a passing beggar, who seemed to know Heracles had a liking for mushrooms. I hadn’t seen our housekeeper since the night of Heracles’s madness, and in my grief gave it little thought. But when I tried to find her and question her, I was told her body had been found at the bottom of a ravine the morning after. Everyone thought she’d fallen in the dark, fleeing from the house after Heracles had driven the servants out. But I think she was murdered to keep her silent.’
‘Then we must trust in the gods to show us who did this,’ Iolaus said.
He turned to the slaves and shouted for them to harness his horses back to the chariot. Then he took Megara’s hand and kissed it.
‘Take care on your return.’
‘I will. Be careful helping my husband with his labours. He carries a heavy burden, and if completing these tasks will free him of it, then I pray for his success.’
The slaves led Iolaus’s chariot across the courtyard to his side. He mounted and took up the reins. Then a thought struck him and he looked at Megara.
‘My father was in Thebes that night,’ he said. ‘He came to ask me to come back with him to Tiryns. At least, that’s the reason he gave me.’
Chapter Two
PHOLUS
Heracles returned to his hut and, finding Iolaus absent, decided to leave without him. Conscious of the fact he had been followed, he thought it best his squire was not seen accompanying him as he left the city for the fourth labour. He did not want to be accused of receiving help, and give Eurystheus the chance to strip him of another victory.
First, he had to capture the creature. Large as an ox, swift as a bird, and with a raging fury capable of wiping out a whole hunting party and their dogs, he would have found killing the boar a near impossibility; so to be expected to take it alive and bring it back with him to Tiryns was laughable. Yet he had to do just that if he was to complete the labour and take a step nearer to absolution for his crime.
But he was not to be alone in the task, after all. As he reached the open country – which the rising sun had divided into sunlit ridges and shadow-filled troughs – he saw a chariot speeding up the road towards him, raising a trail of dust behind it. He recognized the driver long before he reined his horses to a halt before him.
‘Well met, Iolaus,’ he greeted his nephew as he jumped down from the chariot. ‘Where have you been to this early in the morning?’
‘To see Megara,’ Iolaus replied, guiltily. ‘You were in no mood to talk last night, and I wanted to ask what she knew, beyond the little you shared with me.’
‘Will she be staying long with her cousin?’
‘I only just caught her before she left. She’s taken the road north, back to Thebes. We can easily overtake her in my chariot––’
Heracles shook his head.
‘My heart would say yes, but my head says no. I am content she still cares enough to tell me what she has learned. Now, the best thing I can do is give her the space and time she needs to think these things through. And if she has more to say, then she’ll say it.’
It was difficult for Heracles to admit that something was beyond his power, but in the matter of the woman he loved, he knew that he had to stand back and allow her emotions to take their course. To exert himself would simply drive her farther away. That she no longer blamed him personally and directly for what he had done was enough for now.
‘Then where are you going?’ Iolaus asked.
‘To Mount Erymanthus.’
‘The next labour? And you’re going without me?’
‘Your father’s right: these tasks are meant for me and me alone. If Eurystheus were to find out you’d helped me, he’d discount this labour just like he did the last. That’s assuming I succeed in the first place.’
‘What has he ordered you to do?’
‘A boar is laying waste to the country around Phegia, in Arcadia. I’m to capture it and bring it back to Tiryns.’
‘Arcadia’s a long way on foot,’ Iolaus said.
‘I’ll need to find a horse, or maybe even a chariot,’ Heracles replied, with a smile.
‘You’ll be lonely, too. And you can’t talk to a horse.’
‘Then I’ll need to find a companion.’
‘Fortunately for you, I happen to know a man who has a chariot and no other demands on his time,’ Iolaus said. He stepped back into the chariot and took up the reins. ‘Where did you say we were going?’
‘West to Mount Erymanthus,’ Heracles replied, stepping up beside him. ‘And there’s an old friend I’d like to visit on the way. He might know how I can capture this boar. What’s more, he can divine the future and the past. If anyone can find out who gave me those mushrooms, he can.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘Man?’ Heracles said. ‘Who said anything about a man?’
* * *
Charis opened her eyes and gasped for breath. Every part of her body was wracked with pain, and each time her chest expanded with air she felt as if someone was driving a dagger into her lungs. She cried out – a wild, keening yelp of pain that she did not recognize as her own – and clutched at her side. It was tender to the touch, horribly so, and she raised her head in another anguished howl. At least two ribs were broken, and the pain was unbearable.
She let her head sink down and realized she was on all fours, leaning against a cold marble wall. The floor, too, was marble, perfectly white except for the blood that was dripping heavily from her broken nose, and the red smears where her hands and knees had crawled across it. Her gossamer dress was bloodstained and torn, exposing a long, white thigh that was almost as pale as the marble it knelt upon.
She knew at once that the leg and dress did not belong to her. For a moment, she thought she was in a dream. But when she took a second lungful of air the pain was intolerably real.
‘NEVER!’ a male voice boomed, with a power that sent tremors through the floor and walls. ‘NEVER presume you can interfere again. NEVER! I permitted you to set the labours, NOT to judge them!’
Charis’s muscles went weak with terror and she fell to the floor. Warm liquid ran down her inner thigh as she lay quaking in the mess of her own blood and urine. She wanted to curl up in a ball, but even more, she wanted to get away from the appalling power of the voice: a power that could destroy her utterly with a single word, sending her soul back to the oblivion from which it had been created.
There was a crash of thunder and a searing flash of light. For a moment she could hear nothing, see nothing. Then out of the deafness came a low ringing that gave way to the blowing of a fierce wind and the drumming of rain. The white blindness, too, faded to a monochromatic landscape of grey walls and columns, and a black oblong that her stunned senses told her was an open door.
She tried to crawl towards it, fearing the awesome presence close behind her; but as she reached forward, she felt the halves of the broken bone in her upper arm grate against each other. She began to cry, great howling sobs fed by the extremes of her pain and despair; and yet she hoped they might also assuage the anger of the presence behind her, buying her enough time to escape.
Another numbing peal of thunder and an explosion of lightning threw her to the floor again, turning her already feeble muscles to water so that she could barely even think to move, let alone pull her dead weight across that blood-streaked marble. Yet she summoned the strength to drag herself forward with her one good arm, until she felt the wind and the rain blown in through the open doorway. She raised her head a little to look outside. Her right eye must have suffered a blow, for it was already closing with the swelling; but she could see the wind-blown curtains of rain and the wet sheen on the rocks, which curved up in a jagged spine towards a mountain peak vaguely visible against the night sky.
‘GO!’ boomed the voice. ‘Get out of my sight, and don’t steal any more of my son’s triumphs, or it will not go well for you.’
Charis read a single word from the mind of Hera, whose body she was inhabiting. Tartarus , the prison of the enemies of Zeus. The goddess quaked at the thought of it, but hauled herself to the doorway and out into the night. She reached the shelter of an outcrop of rock and fell with her back against it. The wind tore at the thin material of her dress and filled the air with its cries, as if mocking her anguish. She shrieked back, with all the fury that her physical pain and emotional torment had stirred up inside her. Clenching her blood-and-rain-sodden hands into fists, she stumbled to her knees and hurled her wrath back at the storm.
Charis woke with a start. She was safe and dry on her mattress, in the corner of the temple where she always slept. Yet she realized at once that she was not alone.
A woman in a hooded cloak sat on a stool next to her.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said, seeing the sudden panic in the priestess’s eyes. ‘You are safe now.’
Though her face was in shadow, Charis knew the woman was Hera. She threw off her blanket and knelt down, placing her forehead against the cold stone of the floor.
‘Mistress.’
‘Sit up, child. Let me see your face.’
Hera had appeared to Charis in the temple once before, to bring her the news that Heracles had slain the Hydra. Then, she had been beautiful and terrible to look at, with eyes that had searched out the very depths of her soul. Charis had no wish to undergo such a test again; even more, she feared to look at the brutalized aftermath of Zeus’s anger. But she knew she could not refuse.
She looked up. The goddess’s cloak was black, but beneath it she wore the same purple dress as before, its hem decorated with eyes of different sizes that seemed to stare accusingly at Charis. She lifted her gaze a little higher and Hera tipped her hood back, releasing a flood of black hair that tumbled down over her shoulders. Amazingly, there were no bruises or cuts on her face, which was as stunning to look at as before, the skin as pale as marble and the features as noble as they were lovely. Yet her eyes lacked kindness, and the intelligence in them was tinged with the bitter gleam of an aggrieved mind.
‘You are surprised,’ Hera said.
‘I thought you would be––’
‘Bloodied and disfigured, my face smashed up and my body broken? You forget I’m a goddess. Other gods can harm me – just as I can harm them – but the damage is only temporary. I heal quickly. At least on the outside.’
‘I’m sorry you suffered like that, my lady.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry about. Perhaps I am the one who should apologize. It is not easy for a mortal to witness the wrath of Zeus. Even now, I am aware of your terror at the memory of it.’
‘Why did you allow me to see it?’
‘Because,’ Hera said, rising from the stool and crossing the temple, to stand before the crude effigy that was meant to represent her. ‘Because I value you. You are my ally, Charis.’
‘Your ally ?’
‘Who created this monstrosity?’ Hera asked, frowning at the statue. ‘My breasts look like little molehills, I have hips like a horse, and my face – ugh! It’s clearly the work of a man.’
‘Your ally in what, my lady?’
‘In destroying Heracles, of course. Women fall for him too easily, with his rugged looks and all those muscles – just like his father. I don’t want you to do the same. You are my representative, and you must remain loyal to me. I have no one else, even among the gods – they fear Zeus’s tyranny too much.’<
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Charis wondered what difference the loyalty of a mortal could possibly make to a goddess, but remained silent.
‘If he completes the labours, his reward will be much greater than absolution from his sins,’ Hera continued. ‘Zeus intends to make him a god . Can you countenance it? A mortal becoming im mortal? The humiliation of facing my husband’s bastard on Olympus for the rest of eternity would be too much. And all because he took hold of his father’s finger as a babe and refused to let go, impressing him with his strength and courage. At last, Zeus had sired a child in his own mould! Something my womb has failed to provide him with. That’s why he must fail, Charis.’
At last, Charis understood. It was not about Heracles at all. It was about Zeus. It always had been. To defeat the son was to spite the father and avenge the catalogue of wrongs he had committed against her. That the queen of the gods still loved her husband was also strangely obvious. If she could punish him for his countless affairs by striking at his heart, then perhaps her burning anger would be satisfied and she could be at one with him again. It explained the passion behind her hatred for a mere mortal.
‘And he will fail,’ Hera said.
She thrust her palm at the effigy and it burst into flame. Waves of fire crept up the wooden figure, which was black beneath the bright red tongues. The shadows retreated into the corners of the temple, where they fluttered uncertainly, as if afraid. Then she closed her hand into a fist and the flames disappeared. The gloom returned and the effigy was as it had been before, lit dimly by the sputtering torches on either side of it.
Charis – though surprised and awed by the sudden display of power – felt doubt. Heracles should have failed the first labour, but had not. The second and third, also, were meant to be impossible; tasks designed by the goddess to thwart Heracles and bring about his death.
‘But he hasn’t failed yet, Mistress,’ she said.
Hera’s gaze was stern and yet quizzical, as if to contemplate anything other than the destruction of Heracles was the highest form of treason. But Charis had to voice her thoughts.
