by Glyn Iliffe
* * *
King Eurystheus looked at the battlefield before him. A double-line of spearmen holding the centre, with another two lines in reserve. Cavalry on both flanks, ready to exploit his enemy’s weaknesses, or pursue them if – when – they broke. And ranged across the front of his army, his chariots; the weapon with which he would smash his opponent’s front line and drive him from the field.
He tightened the strap on his helmet, which had a tendency to slip to one side, and adjusted his golden breastplate. It was uncomfortable and heavy, and with the padding beneath it made him sweat profusely, even in the winter. And if he developed an itch – which invariably happened – it was almost impossible to scratch it. But with his purple cloak flowing down from the shoulders, he felt like a soldier. No, a great commander , ready to lead his men into battle.
He crammed his knuckle under the rim of his helmet and wiped away a bead of sweat building on his eyebrow. Looking across to the other side of the battlefield, he surveyed the ranks of his enemy. No chariots anywhere – that was a mistake. Instead, phalanxes of spearmen held hills in the centre and on both flanks, with archers ranged in front and the cavalry in poorly disciplined bands to the rear. Finally, he looked at the enemy general. She wore a borrowed leather helmet with a black plume, and a black cloak that was too big for her. Perhaps her lack of other arms was meant to demonstrate her contempt for her enemy. Well, he would show her the meaning of contempt.
‘My chariots will advance,’ he ordered.
He leaned across the table and began moving the clay figurines. The horses were no bigger than his hand and each had been individually painted, as were the soldiers standing in the wooden chariots. Even the wheels turned, which delighted him.
‘For Zeus and the king!’ he trumpeted, in a small but martial voice.
‘My archers will shoot their arrows and retire through the gaps in my line,’ Admete said.
‘What? You can’t do that – can she?’ Eurystheus asked, turning to Tydeus.
Tydeus stood to one side, dressed in full uniform with his helmet tucked beneath his arm.
‘I’m afraid so, my lord. And your daughter’s arrows have killed a third of your chariots.’
‘Ha!’ Admete exclaimed triumphantly, putting her clay archers at the back of her army, then proceeding to knock over one in three of her father’s chariots.
‘A third ? That isn’t fair.’
‘If thirty years as a soldier has taught me anything, my lord, it’s that war isn’t fair.’
Eurystheus frowned. He was determined now to annihilate his enemy. But he hid his frustration behind a shrug and a gracious smile.
‘Of course it isn’t. And I’d expected casualties. Naturally I had. But now my remaining chariots will avenge their comrades by smashing through the ranks of your Theban spearmen.’
He moved his chariots forward, surreptitiously resurrecting two of the fallen while his daughter was smiling gleefully at Tydeus. Even then, they looked woefully outnumbered as they charged the phalanxes she had placed on a line of three upturned wooden bowls. He wondered whether to throw his cavalry into the battle to even the odds, but decided to give all the glory to his chariots.
‘For Tiryns! For the king!’ his men muttered in little voices as they ploughed into the enemy ranks. ‘Each chariot is worth six spearmen, at least.’
He looked to Tiryns for confirmation, but the captain raised his eyebrows sceptically and focused his gaze on the single square window and its view over the lower city.
‘They’re attacking up a slope against a formed enemy. I’d say two––’ He glanced at the king and revised his estimate. ‘Three spearmen killed for each chariot destroyed.’
‘Three ?’
‘You lose half your chariots, my lord. The rest are dismayed by their losses and retreat.’
Eurystheus breathed deeply through his nostrils and glared at Tydeus, but the soldier was looking fixedly towards the window again. Admete gave a whoop of delight and began singing a ridiculously childish and un-martial song as she turned over his chariots. He retaliated by furiously knocking down several of her spearmen, breaking several of the little clay figures. Admete did not seem to mind, nor notice that he had killed more than he should have. Tydeus did not miss his overzealousness, though, and began standing the correct number back up. So fastidious was he that two of them did not even have heads.
Eurystheus gave an angry huff and began moving both lines of his spearmen forward.
‘Revenge!’ they shouted, in a husky whisper. ‘Revenge!’
‘Can my archers fire?’ Admete asked.
‘I’d expect they’re itching to, my lady. Unfortunately for the stout-hearted warriors of Tiryns, they did not start their advance until the chariots had fled. That means they will have to face at least, hmm… At least two volleys.’
Eurystheus ripped off his helmet and threw it on the floor.
‘But of course they will. And I expect three quarters will fall dead, despite their armour and the fact they’re the best fighting men in all of Greece!’
‘No, my lord,’ Tydeus said, dismissively. ‘A half perhaps.’
Admete gave a piercing shriek of joy and began liberally knocking down the spearmen of Tiryns, singing her ridiculous song as she did so. It was more than the king could take. He swept his arm through a whole squadron of his cavalry, scattering them across the floor, then picked up several spearmen and began hurling them at the wall, leaving small orange marks on the white stucco wherever they exploded.
‘Does that mean I win?’ Admete asked.
There was a loud knock on the door and a moment later a soldier entered. He looked at the king in his golden breastplate, and then at the massacre of the army of Tiryns, before standing up straight and turning to Tydeus.
‘Heracles is approaching the city, sir,’ he said.
‘Heracles?’ Eurystheus echoed. ‘Does he have the boar with him?’
‘He has something with him, my lord. Something big, on a wagon.’
Eurystheus gave a shout of rage and threw another figure at the wall. Tydeus nodded at the soldier, who left quickly.
‘Yet again I am to be humiliated,’ Eurystheus screamed, ‘while his reputation grows ever greater.’
‘At least your coffers will flow with more gold,’ Tydeus reminded him, referring to the promised reward from the king of Phegia.
‘I don’t want gold. I want to be rid of this… This slave ! Don’t you understand, Tydeus? He wants my throne for himself. This business with the oracle and these labours, why it… It was all just a trick. I see it now. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. He always meant for me to set him these labours, so that he could enter the city in triumph time after time and win the hearts of the people.’
‘I doubt that, my lord––’
‘That’s his genius! He’s a child murderer, but he wants everyone to believe he’s the victim. Even you sympathize with him. All along, that’s been his ploy – to win over the people of Tiryns and turn them against me. Even the nobles are secretly for him. He doesn’t have to break his oath not to kill me: the people will do that for him.’
‘Not if the royal guard has any say in the matter, my lord,’ Tydeus assured him.
Admete, who had been rearranging the chariots and spearmen into some sort of procession, looked up.
‘I want to see the boar, Father.’
Eurystheus stared at her in exasperation. As his only child, he loved her more than anything else, and would usually agree to her every request. She had his slightly protruding eyes and thick lips, which had always made him think her beautiful. But he was still annoyed that she had defeated his army and made him smash several of his favourite clay soldiers. More than that, he was reminded of what Iphicles had told him about his own child, Iolaus, and how Heracles had stolen the boy’s affections from his father. Did he want Admete to be beguiled by his charms as he carried another monstrous beast through the streets of the city, showing off
his courage and his muscles to anyone stupid or unfortunate enough to look his way? She was thirteen now, old enough to give her girlish heart to the first man who impressed her enough. No, he would not take any such risk with his most beloved child.
‘Absolutely not. You will go to your room and stay there until this ridiculous business is over.’
Her previously winsome eyes flashed with fire. Now it was her turn to sweep her arm across the battlefield and send a company of soldiers tumbling to obliteration. Then she stamped her foot, turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her. A short silence followed, then Tydeus placed his plumed helmet on his head and turned to the king.
‘I’d better go and make sure the streets are clear of people. With your permission, my lord.’
Eurystheus nodded and the captain of the guard marched to the door. It opened before he got to it and Iphicles entered, accompanied by Copreus. They let Tydeus pass between them, then crossed the room to the king.
‘My lord, Heracles has succeeded in capturing the boar,’ Iphicles announced. ‘The watchmen I posted have returned reporting––’
‘I know – something big on the back of a wagon,’ Eurystheus said. ‘Is anyone really surprised? Now what do we do?’
‘The boar must be sacrificed to Hera, my lord,’ Copreus said. ‘That was the requirement, and Charis demands that it is fulfilled.’
‘And after that? Has the goddess given her the next labour?’
Iphicles smiled.
‘Yes. She was given it in a dream last night.’
‘Why wasn’t I informed?’
‘We’ve only just learned it ourselves, my lord,’ Copreus answered. ‘But we think it will please you.’
He looked at the slaves standing in the corners of the room, then in a low voice explained to the king what the priestess had told him. For the first time since his daughter had defeated his army, his despondent anger left him and a grin spread over his face. He pressed his herald and his adviser with questions until they were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Tydeus entered, his plumed helmet still on his head.
‘The streets have been emptied, my lord, and Heracles is approaching the citadel.’
‘Good,’ Eurystheus said. ‘Then let us go welcome the returning hero.’
Charis was awaiting them on the battlements. She watched them approach – her expression aloof, almost disdainful – then bowed as Eurystheus stopped before her.
‘It seems your mistress’s boar wasn’t a match for Heracles, after all,’ he said.
‘He won’t always succeed,’ she replied. ‘No man can withstand Hera’s wrath forever.’
He looked at her noble features and her golden hair, and felt the keenness of his desire for her. His own wife, Antimache, was more naturally beautiful, and her body slaves were skilled in hiding the signs of her encroaching years. But she was always there, always available to him. The priestess, on the other hand, was forbidden. Her lofty position as servant to the Queen of the Gods meant she could have no other master, that she was sworn to remain a virgin and never submit herself to any man – even a king. That frustrated and excited him in equal measure.
‘I hope you’re right,’ he replied. ‘For all our sakes.’
The gates in the courtyard below slammed open. Orders were shouted and the tramp of marching feet echoed from the walls. The clamour ceased and was followed by the trundle of heavy wheels on the cobbled stones. Conscious he was still wearing his golden breastplate, Eurystheus ordered a slave to unbuckle the leather straps and remove it. When it was off, he took a deep breath and walked to the battlements.
Two double-lines of spearmen stood on either side of the main thoroughfare that led up from the gates. More spearmen and several archers stood on the ramparts that encircled the citadel. From where he stood, Eurystheus could see the main street that ran from the citadel down to the outer walls. It was lined with soldiers, though in both the upper and lower cities not a single citizen could be seen. It made Tiryns strangely quiet and lent it an air of expectancy. In the courtyard below was the man whose presence had silenced the city, the slave whom Eurystheus feared more than any king.
Heracles stood alone, his feet planted apart on the cobbles and his fists on his hips. Even from the safety of the ramparts, he still looked fearsome, as if at any moment he might climb the walls and claim the city for himself, killing any man who got in his way. He towered over the soldiers on either side of him, and there was always an awareness of his great strength and latent ferocity. He stood before two oxen harnessed to a large wagon, in which lay the creature that Heracles had been ordered to capture.
Eurystheus had hunted boar several times through the forests and foothills of Tiryns and Mycenae, and though he had never personally killed one of the creatures, he had seen enough of their speed and ferocity to fear them. But none of the beasts he had encountered compared in size to the one on the back of the wagon. It lay so still that for an instant he thought it was dead. He felt a moment’s exultation, believing Heracles had failed in his task and that he could send him back out into the wilderness of his own guilt and suffering. Then he saw the slow movement of the boar’s flanks and knew the labour had been completed.
‘Is there no stopping this man?’ he said. ‘Everything we set for him, however impossible, he completes.’
‘He will meet his match with the next labour,’ Copreus said. ‘No monsters, no killing, no capturing. Just filth and stench.’
‘Yes,’ Eurystheus said, cheered by the thought. ‘Even his great strength won’t find a solution to that.’
‘I have captured the boar,’ Heracles shouted up to the ramparts. ‘The labour has been fulfilled.’
‘Not yet,’ Eurystheus replied. ‘The animal must be sacrificed to Hera.’
‘Then come and kill it yourself. Or let your high priestess do it, if you don’t have the courage.’
Several soldiers glanced up at their king, clearly amused by the thought of him going anywhere near such a brute. He looked at the monster lying still on the cart and he knew their scorn was deserved, for even up here he felt a debilitating fear of it. But then he heard another voice, calling down from the battlements to his left.
‘My father isn’t afraid of anything , least of all a giant pig. Are you, Father?’
Somehow, Admete had found her way to the ramparts, from where she was staring at him expectantly.
‘I told you to go to your room.’
‘But that man wants your throne,’ she said. ‘You told me so yourself. You said he was trying to make the people love him more than you.’
He walked towards her, his hands held up for silence. Then he saw her expression change, from one of absolute confidence in her father to one of sudden doubt.
‘Daddy,’ she pleaded. ‘He’s trying to make you look silly. Don’t let him. You’re the king.’
Her words shamed him. He felt it more before her gaze than all the mocking glances of his army. And though the thought of going anywhere near the Erymanthean Boar terrified him, he knew that for the sake of her love he must.
‘I won’t let him humiliate me, Admete. I’ll kill the boar so that everyone can see I’m not afraid. But it’s a dangerous animal. If… If it should break loose, it might kill me.’
He saw the uncertainty in her eyes as she realized she was asking him to risk his life. But if she was like him in looks and temper, she also had many differences.
‘I know you will succeed, Father. The gods will protect you.’
He felt betrayed that she would rather see him die than look a fool. But there was no turning back now. He signalled to a soldier.
‘Take her to her room and keep her there. I will not have her watch me die.’
‘But…’ she began.
‘Take her by force, if necessary.’
The man picked her up under his arm and carried her back into the palace. Eurystheus looked around at the other guards and at his advisers. Then he crossed to the battle
ments and stared down at his cousin.
‘I will sacrifice the beast, but first I must find my dagger.’
Heracles pulled a knife from his belt and tossed it on the ground. It clanged loudly on the cobblestones, challenging the king to carry out his promise. Eurystheus took a last look at the motionless boar, then turned and walked back into the palace. The others followed at his heels, but no one spoke a word until they had reached the lower citadel, where Heracles was waiting for them. Eurystheus expected to see a mocking sneer on his bearded face, but his expression was impassive as he watched the king approach.
At an order from Tydeus, several of the guards sprang forward with their spears lowered, hustling Heracles back from the wagon. As they moved him a safe distance away from the king – if anything could be considered safe around Heracles – Eurystheus became aware of a powerful, unsavoury stench, as if all the beggars in Tiryns had been brought together in one place. Then he saw the monster, and his feet refused to carry him any closer.
It was bigger than any boar he had ever seen; bigger even than the oxen that stood docile beneath their yokes. To his horror, he saw a black eye staring out from its hairy face and realized it was fully conscious. Viewed from the battlements, its stillness had made him think it was asleep, but now he could see the fine mesh of gold that covered it – almost invisible to the eye, except where it pressed on the animal’s fur or caught the late morning sun rising over the walls of the citadel. He felt his stomach contract and the muscles in his legs weaken, so that he had to force himself not to turn and flee.
Then Copreus stooped to pick up the knife, which he examined carefully before handing it to the king. Slowly, Eurystheus held out his hand and took the proffered handle, gripping it as tightly as his shaking fingers would allow. He suddenly realized all eyes were upon him. Waiting. Expecting.
Slowly, he walked towards the open-sided wagon. The boar’s instincts must have told it that death was imminent, yet it remained still. Eurystheus looked at the slow rise and fall of its vast chest – the place where he had to bury the blade – and knew he could not do it. He sensed the wall of terror his mind had built between himself and the animal; he tasted the fear in his mouth like a bitter gall. He even heard his own voice mocking himself for the golden helmet and breastplate he had worn earlier, when he had fantasized that he was a great leader of men. But only men of clay would ever follow him. He was a despicable coward, unworthy of the throne that he had earned by a goddess’s trickery. He would be better off giving up Tiryns and Mycenae to Heracles, who would at least command the respect of the people.
