by Glyn Iliffe
Yet the throne was still his, he reminded himself. Without it, he truly would be nothing. And so he must go through with the sacrifice. If his adviser and herald were the only ones watching him, he might be able to excuse himself. But he was surrounded by scores of his own soldiers, the men who upheld his power, and without whose loyalty he would soon be deposed or assassinated. More important still, the eyes of Heracles were upon him. If he could just step forward now and plunge the dagger into the boar’s flank, he could prove to his cousin that he was not the contemptible and worthless man he believed him to be. And maybe he might prove it to himself.
He moved towards the monster, placing one foot slowly before the other, all the time aware of its black, melancholy eye following him. The smell of its musk was overpowering now, and as his audience fell silent around him, he became aware of the creature’s husky breathing. It was a heavy, strangled sound, the desperate rasping of a trapped animal – something that struck a sudden cord of sympathy in him.
The dagger felt impossibly heavy as he lifted it above his head and focused his gaze on the shifting mass of bristle-covered muscle before him. Then the boar kicked back with its hind legs and snorted loudly. Eurystheus screamed – not a shout, but a high-pitched squeal that rang back from the high battlements all around. His legs gave way beneath him and he felt hot urine running down his thighs as he fell forward, the blade in his hand glancing across the beast’s chest and turned aside by its ribs.
He caught his shoulder against the edge of the wagon as he continued to fall. Then strong arms pulled him back up, dragging him to his feet. A hand closed around his, and to his amazement he found that he still had hold of the dagger. He looked sideways and saw Copreus, with his gnarled features and stern eyes. The herald tightened his grip on Eurystheus’s hand and raised it upwards. The blade gleamed like ice, the edge smeared with blood. Then Copreus forced it down hard. Eurystheus felt it sink into the boar’s chest, driven down to the hilt. Hot blood gushed up over his wrist and the heel of his hand, and the great brute bellowed with the pain of death, writhing beneath the golden bonds that held it so tightly. Behind them, Charis’s voice was raised in a wailing prayer. But Copreus kept his hand firmly over Eurystheus’s, despite the king’s tears and his pleas to be released, until the Erymanthean Boar expelled its last breath and lay still.
Chapter Six
THE STABLES OF KING AUGEIAS
The sun was setting ahead of Heracles and Iolaus as the road shadowed the winding course of the Peneius. They had been travelling for several days, following much of the route that had taken them to Mount Erymanthus. But two days ago they had turned south towards Elis, where Heracles would face his next labour.
The farcical sacrifice of the boar had shamed not only Eurystheus, but also the great beast itself. Though a monster that had slain indiscriminately and without cause, Heracles believed it had deserved more than the miserable bloodletting that had ended its life. Stranger still, as he had watched his despised enemy wet himself with fear during the botched slaying of the beast, he had almost felt pity for the man. It was uncomfortable to see a king – even Eurystheus – belittle himself and his position as he had done.
Afterwards, while Copreus had helped his master back to the palace, Charis had announced the next labour. Hera had sent her a dream of a man riding upon a filthy and diseased cow. The man was Augeias, king of Elis, famed for his vast herds of cattle. However, the stables where he kept his animals had not been cleaned for many years, causing a pestilence among the people of Elis. The only way to restore the land’s health was to clean the stables where the cattle were kept.
That was Heracles’s newest labour. But even an ordinary man would be able to complete such a task, given enough time; so Hera had insisted that the work be finished in a single day, between one sunset and the next. Even so, Heracles thought it seemed too simple an undertaking to sweep out a stable. There had to be a hidden snare – something designed to ensure his failure; something that would only become clear once he reached the palace of King Augeias.
‘Look,’ Iolaus said, pointing to the hills ahead. ‘Smoke trails.’
‘We’re still half a day’s journey from Elis,’ Heracles said, shielding his eyes against the setting sun as he looked at the thin grey columns. ‘But where there’s smoke, there’s fire – and warmth and food. Perhaps we won’t have to spend the night under the stars, after all.’
The road led them between the overlapping feet of the hills to the apex of a narrow valley. The smoke was coming from a gathering of ramshackle huts at its centre. A few goats and sheep bleated from their stone pens in the fields, but no one could be seen in the village or on the twilit road leading through it.
Iolaus touched his whip to the horses’ flanks and drove into the middle of the village. Several of the huts were clearly empty: there was no smoke rising from their roofs, no gleam of firelight between the cracks of the doors and windows, and many had been raided for their stone or wood. Even those homes that showed signs of life had an air of penury about them. At the sound of the chariot, a few faces appeared at open windows, but only one door opened.
‘Welcome, friends,’ said an old man, silhouetted in the light of the doorway. ‘It’ll be cold tonight, but there’s space for you under my roof, if you wish.’
‘Thank you,’ Heracles replied. ‘Do you have anywhere for our horses? We have our own feed.’
‘There’s a manger out back, and posts to tie them to.’
The sun had disappeared, but in the twilight, Heracles was able to see that the man had a drawn face and a thin body, more the result of poverty and hunger than his advanced years. Yet his expression was honest, and he insisted on removing the horses’ harnesses himself and leading them around to the back of his small house. Here, a lone pig lay dozing in a sty against one wall, but there was no sign of any other livestock.
After tying their horses, he ushered them into his house. The doorway was low, and once inside it took Heracles’s eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness of the hearth and the contrasting gloom that filled the rest of the small room. Then he saw that his host was not alone. A young man sat on a three-legged stool in front of the fire, while at his feet was a little boy of perhaps three or four years of age. The child’s cheeks were flushed and wet with tears, though the arrival of the travellers had given him pause to forget his woes. The man looked up with barely disguised contempt, though this was not directed at the guests so much as at the old man.
Despite this, he stood and passed his stool to Heracles, and gave another – presumably the old man’s – to Iolaus. While he disappeared among the shadowy edges of the room, Heracles sat and held his hands to the flames. A moment later, the man returned with two large logs, which he set down on the floor and covered with goatskins.
‘Fetch wine, Mnesos,’ the old man instructed. ‘The best we have.’
‘You mean the only wine we have.’
‘And bring the pig. What little we have comes from the gods, and who’s to say these travellers aren’t Ares and Apollo in disguise?’
Mnesos looked at the two guests, his gaze lingering longest on Heracles, then he opened the door and went outside.
‘We don’t mean to be a burden, friend,’ Heracles said as the old man sat down opposite them.
‘You are not a burden. It’s too long since we’ve had guests, and with all that’s happened to us, I welcome the company. A few travellers’ tales might chase away the winter gloom.’ He offered them his hand. ‘I am Daitor, son of Odios.’
‘I am Heracles. This is my nephew, Iolaus, son of Iphicles.’
They grasped each other’s wrists, while from outside came the sound of the pig squealing. It gave one last cry and was silent. Heracles winked at the boy, who brushed aside his mop of black hair and smiled back.
‘Where’s the lad’s mother?’
‘Disease took her a few days ago. That’s why my son-in-law is so surly. You must forgive him.’
�
��We’d heard there was pestilence here,’ Heracles said.
‘And it didn’t stop you coming?’ Mnesos said, opening the door with the dead pig in his arms. He walked over to a small table in the shadows. ‘Then you’re either fools or you really are gods, unconcerned by the troubles of men.’
He slammed the carcass down. Taking a large knife from a peg on the wall, he began cutting up the animal that a short while before had been resting peacefully in her pen.
‘It’s been sweeping Elis for months,’ Daitor continued. ‘Killed thousands among the peasants, it has. And now it’s taking its toll on the nobles. That’s why the king made his offer.’
‘What offer?’ Iolaus asked.
‘The pestilence comes from the stables where Augeias keeps his herds. Years ago, the Olympians made his cattle immune from disease and blessed them with high fertility. Almost all the calves are female, but he keeps five hundred bulls for breeding so that their numbers are always increasing. The gods’ blessing has made him immeasurably rich, but it’s also made him lazy.’
‘Lazy?’ Mnesos scoffed. ‘Those stables haven’t been cleaned out in thirty years. The stench of them hangs over the city and the countryside, fouling the air and spreading disease. Hundreds have left the city and no one visits any more, not even the merchants. But when the disease spread to the nobles, they pleaded with Augeias to do something. So he offered a single cow for every man who could take away ten wagons of dung. And there was no shortage of volunteers to start with. He’s always taken more than his share from the people, leaving us half starved from one harvest to the next – so the offer of a fattened cow attracted many. Few ever came back with one of his animals, though. The disease cut them down in their hundreds.’
‘Mnesos and my daughter took a wagon,’ Daitor said. ‘They carried away four loads to the fields before she became ill. There were lots like her, and the stables are no cleaner now than they were before. Though there are many more children without mothers or fathers,’ he added, stroking his grandson’s hair.
Mnesos brought a skewer charged with several pieces of meat, placing it over iron rods on either side of the hearth. Returning to the shadows, he came back a few moments later with wooden bowls of wine and a basket of bread for each of them.
‘So why have you come to Elis?’ he asked, his tone less hostile now that he had given vent to some of his anger.
‘I’m here to clean the stables,’ Heracles replied, raising the cup to his lips.
* * *
Heracles tore off a strip of beef, savouring the succulent meat before swallowing it down with a mouthful of spiced wine. He wiped his lips and placed the golden cup back on the table.
‘I’m being serious,’ he said. ‘I’ll clean out your stables in return for a tenth of your cattle. From all I’ve heard, one year’s breeding will more than replace your losses, and in return you eliminate the source of the disease that’s ravaging your people. What do you say?’
He looked at Augeias, whose bloated body rolled in layers over the sides of his specially constructed throne. His purple feet threatened to burst the straps of his sandals, while his arms were so fat and shapeless that his hands seemed small and childlike by comparison. Though he wore expensive robes, they were stained with grease and flecked with breadcrumbs. Indeed, everything about him seemed polluted by sloth and gluttony. His grey hair and beard were wiry and unkempt, and the yellow fingers that pored over the table before him were bloated and etched with dirt. Selecting a haunch of beef, he bit into it with his black teeth and slapped his lips together noisily as the fat from the meat oozed over them. His several layers of chins made it look as if his oversized head was beginning to melt in the heat from the hearth. But the small, close-set eyes that occasionally flicked Heracles’s way were filled with shrewd intelligence.
‘And you’ll clean them in a single day?’ he said. ‘My stables, which you’d never set eyes upon before today. Your self-confidence is… surprising. Bordering on arrogance, perhaps.’
It was neither confidence nor arrogance, Heracles thought. He had to clear the stables anyway, so he might as well profit from it. And if he failed, then nothing else mattered. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘If I can’t do it, my lord, then what have you lost? But if I succeed, a tenth of your cattle is a small price to pay for the health of your people.’
‘Oh, you won’t succeed, my friend,’ Augeias chortled. ‘If all they say about you is true, then you’re certainly a man to be reckoned with; but you’ll soon find this is no mere lion, or a tame hind that you can carry back to your king. Even a man like you would take ten years to clear my stables. But if you still think you can do it in a day, then I accept your terms. A tenth of my cattle it is.’
‘And you will promise on oath, before all the gods?’
Since arriving in Elis that morning, he and Iolaus had been treated with the utmost respect and generosity. The rules of xenia – the custom for welcoming strangers – had been observed meticulously. They had been given a hot bath and fresh clothes before being ushered into the presence of the king, who had welcomed them with a sumptuous feast. Polite questions about their lineage – essential to prove they were men of noble blood – and the reason for their visit followed. But despite all the vast wealth and resources at King Augeias’s disposal, their reception lacked the warmth they had received the night before from Daitor. What was more, Heracles did not trust Augeias. The man’s wealth was so precious to him that it was clear he did not welcome strangers out of a sense of kindness, or even out of duty to the gods. He wanted to know why they had come to Elis, and what they hoped to go away with.
‘Of course,’ Augeias answered. ‘You have my word of honour, before every god on Olympus.’
He signalled to a pair of slaves, who came forward and lowered themselves to one knee on either side of him. He laid his heavy arms over their shoulders and they lifted him slowly to his feet. Though their faces turned red with the effort, it was Augeias who huffed and blew as he was prised from his chair. Finally, another slave came over and refilled the king’s cup. Waddling to the hearth, he tipped a libation into the flames before raising the wine to his lips.
‘And now,’ he said, turning to his guests, ‘if your hunger and thirst have been satisfied, I will take you to the stables.’
He could not disguise the look of amused scepticism on his features, as he indicated the doors of the great hall. Heracles and Iolaus followed him out into the courtyard, where the winter air was bitter compared to the warmth of the hall. The nauseating stench from the stables hung over everything, making each breath unbearable, even though they held their cloaks over their faces. Augeias and the slaves who accompanied him seemed not to notice.
Elis lay in a large loop of the Peneius river, which enclosed the city on its northern, eastern and southern sides. A flat-topped hill with sheer flanks rose up to the west, so that the city was shielded all around from attack. As a secondary defence, a wall had been built, starting from the northern face of the hill, following the course of the Peneius round in a loop and rejoining the hill at its southernmost point. Bridges crossed the river to the north and the east, and the entrances to the city were guarded by gated towers.
Heracles and Iolaus had entered that morning by the eastern gate. Even as they approached through the slums on the other side of the river, Heracles had noticed the poor state of the city’s defences. Ivy extended up the walls and large shrubs sprouted from the battlements, which had fallen away in places. The ramparts were empty of soldiers, and though a small group of spearmen lazed in the shade of the gate-tower, they seemed more concerned with the game they were playing than with whoever was leaving or entering the city.
The sense of shabbiness had continued as they rode through the streets within. Petty merchants were selling their wares from wooden stalls, though the mingled aromas of bread, fish and vegetables were lost beneath the overpowering odour of dung that dominated everything. The few people who ventured o
nto the streets to buy their goods were thin and wretched, their faces tightly drawn beneath their hoods as they coughed into their cloaks. They avoided eye contact with the men in the chariot.
As he passed between the tired houses – with their fading paint and crumbling plaster – Heracles had wondered what had brought the city and its people into such decline. If it was the pestilence, then it must have been rife for many years. Rather, he thought, it was the smell, or what the smell denoted – a kingdom where livestock was more important than people. But it soon became clear that some people were more important than anything else.
Another wall separated the city from the palace beyond. Bushes sprouted from the mortar here, too, though the parapets had not been robbed for their stone and were manned by a few guards. They found the gates shut against them, but after a messenger had been sent to the palace, word quickly came back that they were to be allowed through. On the other side, they found a large open space between themselves and the sheer-sided hill to the west. The road forked, with one branch running straight up an incline towards the hill, where a large, two-storied building and several outbuildings sat in the shadow of the cliffs. The other led north to a gate-tower, then west to an enormous, featureless structure that was nearly as big as the city they had just passed through. Heracles had never seen its like before, and stared at it in awe as he tried to fathom its purpose. Square in plan, it had soaring, windowless walls and only one entrance that he could see. There were no watchtowers at its corners; no brightly painted murals on its sides; no pillared porches or overbearing statues of gods before its gates; indeed, nothing but tightly fitted, sand-coloured blocks of stone. And like the rest of the city, these were crumbling and cracked, with dark tufts of vegetation growing from the joins and hanging down its sides in beard-like clumps.
