WRATH OF THE GODS

by Glyn Iliffe

  She drew the dagger and threw herself at him. But her vision was blurred with tears, and suddenly she could no longer muster the hatred to give her attack the strength it needed. He seized her wrist easily and twisted the knife from her grip. She gave a cry and fell against the parapet of the bridge, sliding down the rough stones to the ground. Then she felt his hand gripping her shoulder painfully, pinning her back against the wall as he held the ice-cold edge of the dagger against her neck.

  ‘So you brought me out here to kill me,’ he snarled. ‘Somehow you’ve got the thought in your head that I wanted Heracles to murder his own family and take the blame for it, all out of petty jealousy. And without a scrap of real evidence, you’ve decided I’m guilty; judged me worthy of immediate execution!

  ‘But what if you’re right?’ he continued, pressing the blade closer against her soft skin. ‘What if I did drug Heracles? If I can do that to my own brother, couldn’t I just as easily slice this dagger through your windpipe and put an end to your suspicions? Toss your body in the Ismenus and let it float down to the sea? Who’d know then that it was me? Who’d suspect?’

  She looked into his eyes, staring madly back into hers. His face was so close she could see the yellowed enamel on his gritted teeth, smell his breath and sense the simmering rage that had been locked up inside him since the death of Iolaus’s mother. Her attack had failed so miserably because she had not truly believed he was the one who had drugged her husband. If she had, nothing would have stopped the dagger piercing his heart. Now, she was no longer so sure.

  Then he pulled the blade from her neck and threw it into the river. In an instant, his fury was hidden once more behind a mask of aloof indifference. He stood.

  ‘Fortunately for you, you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘However much I might despise Heracles, I am not the one who drugged him.’

  He did not offer a hand to help her to her feet. Instead, he walked to his horse and mounted. She watched as he looked back down the road he had arrived by, his breath clouding in the cold air.

  ‘I do not hold your actions against you, Sister,’ he said. ‘How could I, when I’m so familiar with what grief can do to the mind? Indeed, I pity you, and if you hadn’t tried to kill me I might have been inclined to help you. I will tell you this much, though: someone else travelled with me from Tiryns to Thebes on the night of Heracles’s madness. I don’t know the purpose of their journey – they refused to tell me – but maybe they intended to visit your household. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.’

  And with that, he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and sent it galloping back the way he had come.

  * * *

  The approach to Mount Erymanthus was marked by the same desolation that Heracles had seen in Nemea, where the lion whose hide he now wore had spread fear and death across the countryside. The fields and orchards of the plain had been abandoned, as had the livestock enclosures and the farmhouses. To Iolaus, who had not seen the destruction in Nemea, the sight of broken-down walls and the desiccated carcasses of sheep, cattle and donkeys – all covered with a thin layer of snow – was enough to leave him silent and thoughtful. Even Heracles was disquieted by the sight of fruit trees torn up at the roots and left to rot, and here and there the frozen bodies of men and women. The devastation must have fallen on them with such suddenness and terror that those who had escaped did not dare return to bury the dead.

  The winding road up into the foothills was soon blocked with deep snow, forcing them to leave the chariot and horses in an abandoned barn, still stocked high with hay for the winter. The empty farmhouse nearby provided them with a supper of hard cheese – after they had cut off the mould – and wrinkled apples found in the bottom of a clay jar. They lit a fire in the hearth and slept on straw mattresses left behind by the former occupants. In the morning, they cooked porridge and looked for more food. Though they found nothing they could use, Iolaus discovered two pairs of flat wicker discs, which Heracles explained were for walking on the snow. Hanging them from their belts, they set off on foot towards the wooded slopes above.

  After a while, they passed through a narrow gorge that led up to a plateau of shrubs and cypress trees. Farther up the slope, the smaller trees gave way to a dense belt of pines that separated the foothills from the higher reaches of the mountain. Heracles shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting from the snow-covered landscape. He had no intention of fighting the boar in the depths of the forest. That was where the hunting party sent by the king had been ambushed and destroyed. The boar would likely know every tree and rock, every bush and hiding place. He and Iolaus had to get through the trees to the open meadows of snow and rock beyond. There they might stand a chance against the speed and fury of the creature they had been sent to capture.

  As he studied the terrain before him, the cold silence was suddenly broken by a loud grunting in the pines away to his right. Several crows leapt into the air with an explosion of wings that echoed back from the sides of the mountain. It was followed by the sound of splintering wood. A moment later, the trees began to wave and rustle, sending cascades of snow falling from their branches as one of their number fell crashing to the ground.

  ‘It’s the boar,’ Iolaus said excitedly, reaching for the sword on his back.

  Heracles pulled his hand away from the weapon and pointed towards the forest.

  ‘Follow me. Now!’

  ‘We’re going into the trees?’ Iolaus called to him as they struggled through the deep snow.

  ‘Yes, unless you want it to trap you in that gorge,’ Heracles shouted over his shoulder.

  They forged on into the cover of the forest, where the crunch of the snow beneath their feet was magnified by the trees and rocks around them. After a while, with no sound of pursuit behind, Heracles stopped and stared back into the undergrowth. They were surrounded by white. The ground was thick with snow, and the tall, black trunks of the pines were coated with it. Pale clouds pressed down onto the tops of the trees, while small flakes of white fell in gentle spirals to add to the blanket of snow below. It was bitterly cold, too. Heracles felt the chill air on his skin battling against the heat of the flesh beneath. It made his muscles stiff and his bones ache, and he could feel the moisture on his beard and eyelashes crystallizing to ice.

  But there was no sign of the boar. Even the grunting and crashing had stopped, making Heracles wonder if the creature had sensed their presence. After they had strapped on their snowshoes, he uncapped his quiver and picked out an arrow. Those with black fletches had been dipped in the blood of the Hydra, so he was careful to choose one with grey feathers. Slipping the bow from his shoulder, he fitted the arrow and continued into the forest.

  The crunching of snow underfoot sounded horribly loud in the haunting silence of the forest. The steep incline slowed them down, but eventually the trees began to thin out, leaving them looking out at a vast field of white between soaring ridges of rock that were flung out like tentacles from the head of the mountain. The peaks of other mountains were visible on either side, all of them – like Erymanthus itself – stark and white and crowned with mist.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing towards a group of isolated pines on one of the ridges. ‘We’ll string the net between two of the trees. With all the snow behind it the boar won’t know it’s there until it’s too late.’

  ‘The question is how do we draw it out of the forest in the first place?’ Iolaus said.

  ‘Shout – sing, if you like – anything to let it know we’re here. The moment it sees us, it’ll come charging up the slope and into our trap.’

  ‘But what if it doesn’t do what we want it to? What if it does see the net and goes around it? Didn’t the messenger from Phegia say it was fast, as well as ferocious?’

  ‘The snow will slow it down. I’ll put a couple of arrows in it to weaken it, then I’ll lead it toward the net. It’ll be––’

  ‘Heracles!’

  Iolaus grabbed his uncle’s wri
st. His other hand shot out, pointing at something over his shoulder. Heracles turned. At first, he could only see the shadows of the forest. Then he spotted it – an enormous, squat shape under the eaves, twice the size of a bear and yet only revealed by the haze of white vapour that billowed from its nostrils. Had it heard their voices, carrying in the cold air? Or had it tracked them through the forest, waiting for the moment to attack?

  Its entire body, from its tail to its long snout, was covered with wiry brown hair. Through the bristles on its ugly head, he could see its small black eyes staring maliciously at him. There was no cunning in them – not of the kind he had seen in the green eyes of the Nemean Lion – but there was a burning hatred for all living things. And the boar did not need intelligence to destroy its victims: its gleaming tusks were as long as a man’s arm from elbow to fist; and its hunched shoulders were packed with enough muscle to punch through anything in its path.

  ‘Iolaus, get up to the trees on the ridge,’ Heracles said. ‘Now !’

  His squire turned and ran as fast as his snowshoes would allow him. Heracles raised his bow and fired. The string hummed and the arrow buried itself between the boar’s shoulders. The monster gave a deep-throated grunt and sprang forward. Heracles ran, lifting his knees high to avoid tripping over his snowshoes. But he knew the snow was not deep enough by the forest edge to slow the boar down, and that the animal would be upon him in moments. Slipping the knot that held his club to his belt, he turned to face his pursuer.

  The creature was close behind him, charging with its head lowered and its tusks jutting forward like spears. Heracles swung his club into its jaw, a hasty blow with just enough strength to throw the boar’s head to one side before its body ploughed into him, knocking his legs away and throwing him high into the air. He landed on his shoulder in the snow. The impact drove the air from his body and smashed open his quiver, scattering the arrows. His club had fallen from his hand and lay several paces away.

  A warning shout from Iolaus forced him to his feet, just in time to see the brute lower its head for a fresh attack. He thought of Hephaistos’s net, folded away in his satchel, but there was not enough time. Crouching low, he thrust a leg out behind him and splayed his hands to meet the charge.

  The boar moved with terrifying speed. He seized hold of its tusks as it smashed into him, pushing its head upwards so that its long jaw slipped over his shoulder and its coarse hairs grated against his neck and chin. Chest to chest, they rose up against each other, like mighty waves crashing at sea. But the boar was larger and heavier, and despite Heracles’s vast strength, the momentum of the animal’s attack drove him irresistibly backwards.

  He fell into the snow, still clinging onto the boar’s tusks as he was crushed beneath the weight of its body. Its forelegs were either side of his chest, scrambling for some kind of purchase as its hind legs drove them both deeper into the snow. For a moment, his senses were overwhelmed with the closeness of the animal – the heat of its body, the wiry roughness of its hide, and the stench of its musk. Then the snow filled his ears, eyes, mouth and nostrils and he felt suddenly as if he was drowning.

  Roaring with defiance, he pushed his knee into the monster’s chest and with a thrust of his arms heaved its vast body aside. Released from its crushing mass, he regained his feet and scrambled drunkenly over the snow – incredibly, his snowshoes had remained mostly intact – to where his bow and arrows lay scattered. He heard the enraged squeals of the boar behind him and Iolaus’s shouts from the slopes above, and knew he had but a few heartbeats before its tusks would tear into his spine and rip him open. He snatched up the bow and a grey-feathered arrow, then turned.

  The boar was a few paces away, its head lowered as it rushed towards him. He aimed hastily and released the bowstring. The arrow sank into the creature’s neck and it bellowed with pain. It toppled sideways into the snow, burying the arrow beneath itself. For a moment, he thought the arrow had pierced its heart and that he had forever lost his chance of absolution for the murder of his children. Then the boar kicked out with one of its back legs and raised its head from the snow.

  ‘Heracles, run!’ Iolaus shouted.

  Leaving his bow and arrows, Heracles dashed up the slope towards the knot of pines on the ridge. Behind him, he heard the boar’s squeals of pain succumb to a bellow of vengeful rage. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he saw that it had regained its footing and was charging after him. And despite the deeper snow, it was already gaining on him.

  Heracles ran on, the snowshoes keeping him from sinking into the snow, but at the same time clumsy and awkward to use. Iolaus was waiting halfway up the slope, his sword drawn. Heracles waved him on with an urgent gesture.

  ‘Get to the trees,’ he shouted. ‘And put the sword away. We don’t want to kill it.’

  His nephew glanced at the huge boar, then stumbled off towards the pines. Heracles realized there was no time now to tie the net between the boles of the trees. Only one chance remained: to turn and throw it over the monster as it pursued him up the slope. He could hear its grunts close behind him now. Lifting the flap of his satchel, he pulled out the golden net.

  The snow thinned again as he reached the shadow of the pine trees. He could not see what lay over the lip of the ridge, only the neighbouring mountains in the distance. Seeing his nephew behind one of the trees, he threw the net to him – hanging onto one corner himself – and shouted for him to catch it. But Iolaus was not listening. His eyes were fixed on something close behind Heracles. With a yell, he gripped his sword in both hands and ran from the cover of the tree.

  The next moment, Heracles’s legs were knocked from under him. He felt himself lifted up by the charging body of the boar and propelled towards the edge of the ridge. There was a searing pain in his side, and then he was falling into white nothingness.

  Chapter Five

  THE SACRIFICE IN TIRYNS

  Heracles fell amid a flurry of snow kicked up from the edge of the ridge. It swirled around him as he looked up at the pale sky and the grey rock face passing rapidly to his right. He could not see the boar, though he could hear its terrified squeal as it, too, plummeted downward. What lay below them, he did not know; most probably a quick death on wind-blasted rocks and an end to all his concerns. The thought left him strangely at peace. He sensed the approach of the ground below him and closed his eyes.

  He hardly felt the impact. Instead, he was sinking into deep, fresh snow, which quickly compacted beneath him to halt his fall. He opened his eyes and stared up at the white walls above him, wondering if he was dead and realizing with a sense of exultation that he was not. He moved his arms and legs a little, then tried to sit up. The pain was sudden and sharp, causing him to cry out. He placed a hand to his side, felt the sticky dampness there and raised his palm. It was covered in blood.

  Fighting the pain, he forced himself to sit. There was a bloody tear in his tunic, and lifting it up he saw a gouge along the side of his stomach. He remembered the sharp bolt of pain as the boar had charged into him, and realized its tusk must have torn through the hard abdominal muscles, missing his innards by no more than one or two fingers’ breadth. Gritting his teeth, he pressed a handful of snow over the wound and stood. The powdery walls around him crumbled at his touch, but his sturdy wicker snowshoes had survived the fall and he used them to climb out of the hole.

  He looked up at the cliff beside him and saw that his fall had not been as far as it had felt. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the snow, he saw the tops of the pine trees above, but no sign of Iolaus. Then he heard grunting and noticed a larger hole several paces away, which the boar was already fighting its way out of. Laying a hand on his satchel, he remembered he had taken the net out at the top of the ridge.

  The boar’s huge head emerged from the top of the snowdrift, blowing out a cloud of white vapour as it struggled against the soft, yielding walls of its prison. Heracles’s dagger was still in his belt, but he was loath to use it against the animal and ri
sk a misplaced blow that could take its life. Looking desperately around himself, he saw the rocky face of the ridge where it emerged from the snow, and ran towards it.

  Seizing hold of a huge lump of stone, Heracles pulled at it in desperation, his muscles taut with the effort. A loud crack echoed across the frozen waste and the lump of rock came free in his hand. At the same moment, he felt a jolt of pain from the wound in his side. His vision blurred and the rock almost fell from his hands as his limbs weakened. He fell back against the face of the cliff with a groan, and saw the long trail of his own blood in the snow behind him.

  Seeing its tormentor trapped against the ridge, the boar gave a deep bellow and pulled itself free of the hole caused by its fall. It launched itself towards him, lowering its head for a final attack that would skewer its weakened prey against the cliff. Gritting his teeth against the pain that was fogging his senses, Heracles raised the rock in his hand and threw it at the charging monster. It caught the boar across the top of its snout, sending it crashing sideways into the deep snow.

  Heracles clutched a hand to his side and struggled towards the stricken animal. Its flanks were moving heavily as he approached, and then it raised its head and staggered back to its feet, its black eyes focusing once more on the man before it.

  ‘Heracles!’

  Glancing up, Heracles saw Iolaus leaning over the upper edge of the cliff. A moment later, something shapeless and fluid was falling through the air. He ran forward to where the net had fallen and pulled it out of the snow. The boar – still stunned by the blow to its forehead – gave a snort and turned to face him, tearing at the snow with its forepaw before throwing itself into a new assault. Heracles loosened the net, then tossed it toward the charging animal.

  The mesh spread into a broad circle as it span through the air, falling on top of the monster and bringing it crashing down into the snow. The boar struggled against the fine cords that the Smith God had forged long ago, but the more it fought the tighter the net squeezed itself around it, until eventually it was forced to surrender and lay still. Only the slow rise and fall of its chest and the gleam in its black eye indicated it was still alive.