by Glyn Iliffe
Holding the torch higher, he was unsettled by the sight of more nets spread out like vast webs high above him. He imagined enormous spiders scuttling over the interlaced cords and biting through the ropes that suspended them from the ceiling, releasing them onto himself and Heracles and trapping them like flies. Dismissing the thought with a shudder, he returned to his examination of the walls and noticed faded murals beneath the nets. He was barely able to make them out, so faded were they and so muddled by the criss-crossing of the nets; but when he stepped back and held the torch over his head he was able to discern painted figures amid scenes that had once been bright and full of life.
One scene struck him as he moved along the wall. It was of a man who wore what looked like a diadem or crown. The thunderbolt he held in one fist denoted him as Zeus. He stood atop a mountain, his other arm extended as if pointing or throwing. Halfway between the mountain and the land below, a second figure was falling. He wore a loincloth, and was staring over his shoulder at the land below him. The image was strangely captivating, and Iolaus found himself sympathizing with the falling man, wondering what he was falling from and why, and what his fate would be. Then he heard a noise from the direction of the statue and turned, expecting to see Heracles searching among the shadows. But his uncle was still on the other side of the temple, his presence marked by the slow movement of a torch.
‘Is anyone there?’ Iolaus asked in a low voice.
He walked cautiously towards the statue of Hephaistos, telling himself it was probably the man who had lit the torches; a priest – nothing more – who had been frightened into hiding by the appearance of two armed men. Yet he also reminded himself that he had his sword strapped to his back, should whoever it was prove to be otherwise.
‘Who is it? Speak now, or––’
‘Don’t hurt me.’
It was a woman’s voice, her words soft with fear. He saw her in the shadows behind the statue. Her face was a pale blur, but her hair appeared to glimmer slightly in the darkness. He approached slowly, the palms of his hands held up before him.
‘I’m not going to harm you. I’m just––’
‘Then why do you enter a temple armed?’ she asked. ‘In the land of Elis, it’s an insult to the gods to carry weapons in a place of worship.’
‘I’m not from Elis,’ he replied, slipping his sword from its scabbard and laying it on the flagstones. ‘But if I’ve caused offence, then I’m sorry. Are you a priestess?’
‘No. I serve Hephaistos in a different capacity.’
Iolaus frowned, not understanding her meaning. He approached her slowly, but she seemed to have lost her fear and no longer shrank from him. Holding up the torch, he could see that she was a little shorter than himself and perhaps twice his age. She had powdered her face to whiten the skin and painted her lips to make them look fuller. Her eyes were lined with black so that they seemed larger and more beautiful, though he sensed that beneath these enhancements she had a powerful beauty of her own. Her hair was as black as a raven’s feathers, and the locks that framed her face and hung down almost to her breasts shone in the torchlight. The glimmer he had seen was from the shawl she wore, which sparkled with the flickering of the flame. It covered her head and shoulders and flowed down over her grey dress to the floor, where it pooled around her sandalled feet.
‘What capacity? If you aren’t a priestess, then––’
‘Come,’ she said quietly, taking the torch from his hand and slotting it in an empty bracket. ‘I will show you.’
She took his hand in hers and her fingers were soft and warm. Iolaus glanced towards the corner, where Heracles’s torch had been placed in a bracket on the wall and he could hear grunts, followed by the snapping of chains. Then the woman slipped off her sandals and led him behind the statue, where a fur-covered mattress lay on the floor.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Herac ––!’
She placed her fingers over his lips.
‘Your friend is busy trying to find Hephaistos’s net. Let him look for a while; he won’t mind if you spend a little time with me.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Iolaus said uncertainly, as she ran her hands over his chest. ‘But if you’re a servant of the temple, perhaps you can tell us which of these nets is––’
‘I serve the god with my body,’ she said.
She raised her fingers to the peacock-shaped brooch on her shoulder and unpinned it. Her dress fell to the floor and she stepped out of it, kicking it to one side. The shawl remained, but its gossamer-like material hid nothing of her nakedness from Iolaus’s awed gaze.
‘You’re a temple prostitute!’ he gasped. ‘But… But I––’
He stepped away, shaking his head. She reached out and took hold of his wrist, drawing his hand gently to her breast. It was soft and warm, and though he knew he should pull away and call for his uncle, he found he could not. The woman stepped closer, looked hypnotically into his eyes, then placed her lips on his. At the same time, she slid her arms around his neck and gently eased him back against the temple wall with her body, pressing against him so that he could feel her nipples through his tunic. At first he felt tense and afraid, but such was her skill that he quickly relaxed into the kiss. He raised his hands to her waist and she gave a little sigh of pleasure.
Then she pulled away, her eyes opening to look into his.
‘You’ve not slept with a woman, have you?’ she said, studying his face for a reaction. ‘Not even kissed one before, I think.’
He smiled awkwardly and looked down at her lips.
‘Of course I have.’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ she said, kissing him briefly. Taking his hands, she pulled him down to the furs, where they knelt facing each other. ‘Nothing at all. But I’m intrigued. A handsome man like you should be able to choose any girl he wants.’
‘Not any,’ he replied, instantly regretting his admission.
‘Now I see. You’re in love, but you can’t tell her. How your heart must ache for her.’
She came closer, pausing to look into his eyes before kissing him. This time he could taste her breath, briefly, before their lips met. His senses filled with the smell of the perfume in her hair, and as she raised the hem of his tunic, he could feel the heat of her bare thighs and stomach against his. Slowly, she lowered him to the mattress. The furs were soft against his buttocks and lower back. And then she was on top of him, the shawl covering them both like a sheet.
‘Can you see her in your mind as I touch you?’ she asked, her voice little more than a breath. ‘Think about her now.’
He shook his head. Then she lowered her lips to his face, kissing his eyes shut. He sensed her hand reach out to the side and heard the faint scrape of something metallic. Then she lowered her mouth to his chest, kissing his ribs and the hard muscles of his stomach. As she moved down his body, kiss by kiss, the shawl began to settle on his face and chest, strangely heavy.
‘Say her name for me,’ she said.
‘Megara,’ he whispered.
Suddenly, there was a shout and he felt the weight of the woman and the shawl pulled from him. He opened his eyes to see Heracles’s bearded face glaring down at him, his eyes ablaze as he held the woman’s hair in his fist. She writhed beneath his hold and filled the temple with the echoes of her screams. Then there was a flash of fire as the blade in her hand reflected the torchlight. She drove the point at Heracles’s chest, but he caught her wrist and twisted it sharply, forcing the dagger from her fingers. She screamed again, this time in anger, and he pushed her away. She fell onto the flagstones and lay still.
Heracles dropped to one knee beside his nephew and picked up the knife. Iolaus, his eyes wide with terror, tried to crawl backwards on his elbows.
‘Stay still, boy,’ Heracles commanded. ‘Did she hurt you? Did she hurt you ?’
‘N… No. I don’t think so.’
‘You were lucky,’ Heracles said, tossing the blade into a corner of the te
mple. ‘She had the dagger in her hand when I found you. A moment later and she’d have had you snared in Hephaistos’s net, helpless to stop her while she stabbed you to death.’
‘Hephaistos’s net?’
‘This,’ Heracles said, holding up the shawl in his fist. ‘She was wearing it. Watch.’
He pushed his hands into the material and spread his fingers apart. The shawl expanded easily, revealing scores of finely linked golden cords that unravelled into a wide mesh. Closing his fists, he tried pulling the shawl apart. But even Heracles’s great strength failed, though the veins on his muscles strained with the effort.
‘By all the gods,’ he gasped, releasing his hold. ‘It’s stronger than chains of iron, but the whole thing weighs less than a woollen blanket. There’s no telling how far it can stretch, yet it would easily fit in my satchel.’
‘I thought she was going to make love to me,’ Iolaus said, sitting up. ‘Why would she want to kill me?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.’
Heracles stood and turned. Iolaus joined him, but the woman had gone.
‘Where is she? She can’t have escaped that quickly.’
‘She has,’ Heracles said. ‘We won’t find her now.’
Iolaus looked around the temple, but there was no telltale movement in the darkness. Then he remembered her dress, and looked into the shadows where she had kicked it. But that, too, had gone.
‘Do you remember what the guard in Thelpusa said?’ Heracles asked. ‘That the temple is haunted; that the net is guarded against those who seek it. Perhaps she was a nymph, or even a goddess. Who knows? But you’re fortunate to be alive, Iolaus. And at least you found the net.’
‘Glad to have helped,’ Iolaus replied, with a shudder.
Chapter Four
THE ERYMANTHEAN BOAR
Megara sat in the shadows and waited. Her heart was beating fast as the bloated orb of the sun sank into the snow-covered tops of the mountains behind her, but still there was no sign of horse or chariot on the road from the south-east. Perhaps he had not received her message, or perhaps he suspected something. It was even possible Iphicles had accepted his son was a disciple of Heracles and could never be won back, despite the suggestion she had made of an end to the feud. But she could not believe her brother-in-law would turn down any offer of a reunion. He had to come.
The Ismenus flowed fast and loud, just a stone’s throw from the olive tree under which she was sitting. Despite her thick cloak and the hood pulled over her head, the biting wind fought its way through the layers of wool and left her shivering with the cold. Her fur-lined boots and the goatskin mittens she wore gave her some comfort, though sitting still on a flat boulder had done little for her circulation. She stood and walked up and down, stamping her feet and clapping her hands in a futile effort to restore some warmth.
Glancing at the road, she thought she saw movement. Running to the hump of the old bridge, she climbed onto the stone parapet to give herself as much height as possible. The road ran like a grey ribbon through the middle of the broad plain, curving as it followed the sweeping meanders of the river. With half the valley in shadow and the rest lit with a pink half-light it was difficult to pick out detail, and for a moment she thought her eyes had deceived her. Then she saw it again – a figure on horseback, galloping out of the shade of a small wood that crossed the road. The rider’s cloak billowed out behind him, and though he was still far away, she felt her doubt and fear return.
She jumped down from the parapet and ran to the shade of the olive tree, where she leaned her back against the bent trunk. What madness had driven her to send a message to Iphicles? Why had she come alone, when she could have brought a couple of slaves, or even armed guards? If Iphicles was the one who had drugged Heracles, what was to stop him murdering her by that lonely bridge where there was no one to witness the crime?
Maybe she was a mad fool, but her madness was not caused by any mushroom. It was the madness of grief, a madness that could only be cured by revenge. That was why she had not brought guards: she may only be a woman, but she did not want some slave or soldier to strike down the man who had caused the deaths of her children. That right belonged to her.
The sound of hooves on the frost-hardened road became audible over the low roar of the river. She listened to it calmly, letting the rhythm drive the thoughts from her mind, until she was aware of nothing but the beat of the hooves as it merged with the drumming of her heart, then diverged, and then merged again. Unable to resist any longer, she looked out from behind the trunk, just as the horse and rider appeared. The echo of hooves in the cold air came to an abrupt stop. The man urged his horse onto the bridge and sat up, staring about at the surrounding shadows.
‘Iolaus?’ he said, in a low voice.
Megara had not seen her brother-in-law since he had left her father’s palace to become an adviser to King Eurystheus. He had not changed: dark, thinning hair, close-cropped beard, prominent nose, and the same intelligent eyes. Only the urgency in his expression was different from the aloofness she remembered.
‘Iolaus! Where are you?’ he called. And then to himself: ‘Gods, don’t let him have gone.’
She watched him dismount and tether his horse to a post at the end of the bridge. Then she stepped out from behind the tree, her heart pounding again as she walked towards him.
‘Your son isn’t here,’ she said.
Iphicles fell back against the stone parapet, drawing his sword clumsily and holding it out before himself.
‘M… Megara? Is that you?’ He fumbled his sword back into his scabbard. ‘What are you doing here? Where’s Iolaus?’
‘Hunting boar with Heracles.’
‘The Erymanthean Boar! But that’s not possible. He sent me a message, asking me to meet him here at sunset. Why would he lie?’
‘He didn’t lie. The message was sent by me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t come to Thebes just because I wanted to speak with you,’ she said. ‘So I sent the message in Iolaus’s name.’
‘So… So he doesn’t want to speak with me?’ The disappointment on Iphicles’s face was clear. He laid his hands on the parapet and looked back across the plain. ‘But why would you make me come all the way out here, to the middle of nowhere? You could have spoken to me when you were in Tiryns, just a few days ago.’
Megara laid her hand on the dagger beneath her cloak and felt a stab of alarm at what she was planning to do. Then her nervousness subsided and gave way to a renewed determination to see the matter through.
‘I didn’t know then what I know now.’
Iphicles’s disappointment turned to anger. He slapped his hand down on the stone and turned to his sister-in-law.
‘What in Hades is so damned important that you have to bring me all the way out here? What do you know that needs my presence so urgently? Does it concern Iolaus?’
Should he not know already, she thought? Should he not even suspect? Or was he maintaining the bluff with all the skill and aplomb of an accomplished liar? She pulled her cloak together, fearful it might part and reveal the handle of her dagger.
‘This isn’t the first time you’ve travelled to Thebes since you left, is it?’
He paused, a hint of suspicion in his expression.
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘You were here the night of Heracles’s madness, the night he murdered my children and tried to kill me, too. Do you deny it?’
‘Am I being accused of something?’
‘You’ve always hated your brother,’ she continued, feeling her heart beating faster again. ‘You’ve always been jealous of him––’
‘Jealous! Ha!’ he spat, turning his back to her and laying his hands on the wall again.
‘Yes, Iphicles – jealous. And never more so than when your own son rejected you for him. Iolaus went to Heracles for the guidance and affection he should have received from you.’
; ‘That’s not true!’ Iphicles snapped, glaring at her.
‘Isn’t it? Then why did you come to Thebes that night and beg Iolaus to return with you to Tiryns? Tell me why.’
‘Because he’s my son, damn it! Yes, I didn’t know how to tell him I loved him. I didn’t know… I didn’t know how to show it. Because every time I looked at his face, I saw the mother who died giving birth to him. The woman I loved with all my heart. But when he left me, I realized how much I loved him too. And my leaving for Tiryns didn’t take away the sense of loss – it only numbed it. So you’re wrong, Megara. It wasn’t jealousy of Heracles that brought me to Thebes that night; it was love of my only son.’
Megara was surprised by the sudden outburst of emotion from a man she had only ever thought of as cold and selfish. At least now she understood why his second marriage – to her younger sister – had been so loveless. But repressed passions could morph into other emotions and express themselves in crueller ways. Like anger, jealousy and murder.
‘Yet he rejected you. Your only son refused to go back with you. He chose Heracles over you, didn’t he?’
‘So what?’
Iphicles looked moodily away to the road, unable to meet Megara’s gaze in his anger. The sun had sunk below the mountains and twilight was creeping into the valley. Megara slipped her hand inside her cloak.
‘So you got angry. You wanted revenge on your brother, who took Iolaus from you.’
‘Revenge?’ he asked, frowning. ‘Are you trying to accuse me of something, Megara? Wait… You’re not suggesting that somehow––’
‘Someone drugged my husband to do what he did. The gods didn’t send him insane, Iphicles. You did!’
