by Glyn Iliffe
‘I’ve brought you some porridge!’ he shouted up, over the crash of another stone.
Heracles looked at him and blinked, as if startled by his sudden appearance. Then he pointed to a stone staircase a little farther along.
‘Bring it up to me.’
By the time he reached his uncle, two more stones had fallen. In the breach he had made, only two thirds of the wall now remained. Heracles sat on top of the broken masonry, the dirt from last night’s work overlaid with a fine covering of dust.
‘Did you see Augeias?’ he asked, taking the wineskin from Iolaus’s hand and drinking deeply.
‘He was busy with another visitor.’
‘Maybe that’s why he hasn’t come out to protest. He must have guessed my plan by now.’
‘Perhaps he’s just happy with anything that cleans away the filth,’ Iolaus said. ‘Imagine living with that stink every moment of every day. Here, eat this.’
He leaned over the broken edge of the walkway and passed the lukewarm porridge to his uncle. Heracles ate it quickly and washed it down with another swallow of wine, before handing the bowl and the skin back to Iolaus. He paused to look at the distance from the wall to the stables, and suddenly he looked exhausted, as if he knew the task was too much for him. Then the shadow passed. He took a deep breath and seized hold of the next block of stone, pulling it free and throwing it down on top of the others.
‘You don’t have to cut a channel from here to the stables,’ Iolaus said. ‘All you have to do is knock a hole in the southern wall of the stables, then finish the trench you dug last night. The river will flow through the stables and down over these pastures, taking the filth with it. The labour could be complete by noon.’
‘The stable is on top of a slope,’ Heracles said, taking hold of another stone. ‘But what’s at the bottom?’
Iolaus’s eyes followed the incline down towards the wall that separated the palace from the city.
‘If I do as you say, then the hard work has already been done,’ Heracles continued. ‘Indeed, I could complete the labour with only a little more effort. But with the river as full and fast as it is, the force of the water would carry it down the slope, through the gates and into the streets of the city, taking all that effluence with it. Can I destroy the homes of a thousand people to salve my own conscience? No, I can’t. A second channel has to be dug so the river runs back into itself.’
Iolaus looked over the parapet at the Peneius, only a stone’s throw from the foot of the wall as it looped around the southern half of Elis. It was a strange irony that the man who had become infamous for killing his own children should care so much for a city of strangers. But perhaps that was his greatest virtue: not the strength of his arms, but the power of his conscience. A man who troubled so much over his own absolution could not accept it at the price of more sin.
‘Besides,’ Heracles grunted, hurling another stone from the rapidly reducing wall, ‘if I flood his city, Augeias is unlikely to pay me for my work. And I want those cattle. That’s why I will right the river again afterwards, and rebuild these walls.’
‘What will you do with a herd that big? If our estimate of three thousand cattle is right, then a tithe will mean three hundred animals. Where would you keep them all?’
‘I won’t keep them – any of them. They’re to be a gift.’
‘A gift? To who?’
‘To King Creon, as a peace offering. If I’m ever to win Megara back, I must win her father’s heart, too.’
‘Megara?’ Iolaus said. ‘But––’
He was interrupted by the sound of hooves. Turning, he saw a chariot travelling along the road towards the city. As it reached halfway, it left the track and rode in a direct line towards the battlements. Three figures were visible: one was clearly Augeias, notable by his vast torso; another was his driver; the third was unclear, though he wore a black cloak with a fur collar.
‘Copreus,’ Heracles said. ‘So he was Augeias’s guest.’
The chariot pulled to a halt as Heracles hurled another stone onto the heap below. The horses were startled by the crash, almost tossing Augeias from the back. The driver reined them in skilfully, and the king and Copreus stepped down.
‘You lied to me!’ Augeias began. ‘You tried to extract payment from me, when your master had already compelled you to clean my stables.’
Another block fell from the walls, breaking in two as it landed and sending out a cloud of dust and stone chips over the newcomers. Augeias covered his face with his forearm, while Copreus merely narrowed his eyes.
‘Still, an oath is an oath,’ Heracles replied. ‘You swore before the gods that you’d pay me a tenth of your cattle if I cleaned your stables in a day.’
‘The labour isn’t completed yet,’ Copreus reminded him. ‘And already it appears your methods are questionable.’
‘Questionable?’
‘Diverting a river is original, but it seems to me the work will be done by the river god, not you.’
‘So you would have me use a spade to clear out the filth, Copreus?’
‘Yes.’
‘But surely then the work would have been done by Hephaistos, who taught smiths to beat lumps of iron into spades,’ Heracles countered. ‘After all, Charis’s words were only that I should cleanse the stables, not that I should do it with my bare hands.’
‘And I haven’t fired any arrows at the piles of dung,’ Iolaus added. ‘I’m just here to watch.’
Augeias looked at the broken wall and the pile of masonry.
‘You can fight among yourselves about how you fulfil your master’s orders, but in Elis I am king, not Eurystheus. Who said you could knock down the city’s ramparts? Or dig a trench up to the gates of my stables, forcing my herdsmen to take the cattle to pasture by another route?’
Heracles jumped down from the wall and walked up to the king.
‘Your stables will be cleaned out by sunset today, just as I promised. And afterwards I will right the course of the river, fill in the channels I’ve dug and rebuild any wall I’ve had cause to damage. Only then will I claim a tenth part of your cattle.’
‘Tenth part?’ Augeias echoed. ‘What is this tenth part you keep talking about? I’ve made no such promise.’
Heracles’s expression darkened, forcing Augeias to step back.
‘You swore before every god on Olympus that you’d pay me a tenth of your cattle,’ he said, stepping closer and boring into the king of Elis with his fierce gaze. ‘And you will pay me what you promised.’
Copreus flicked aside his cloak and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Augeias threw a glance at his driver, who cracked his whip over the backs of the horses and wheeled the chariot about, stopping it behind his master.
‘The payment was not a tenth of my cattle,’ Augeias said, mounting the chariot and indicating for Copreus to join him. ‘It was ten cattle. And a king always keeps his promises.’
The driver gave a shout and the horses pulled away. Heracles stared at the retreating chariot, which passed a line of wagons that were slowly ambling their way towards the battlements. His fists were clenched at his sides and Iolaus could sense his fury. Then he turned on his heel and returned to the wall. Climbing to the top, he gripped a huge block of stone and pulled it free, hurling it to the ground with a shout. Another followed, and then another, as if they were nothing more than mud bricks.
‘What will you do?’ Iolaus asked, approaching his uncle with caution.
‘The only thing I can do,’ Heracles snarled. ‘The labour has to be completed.’
‘But he gave you his word .’
Heracles gave an ironic Ha! then threw another stone down onto the pile below.
‘The gods won’t turn away from what he’s done,’ Iolaus said. ‘They always punish oath breakers.’
‘The gods?’ Heracles asked, turning to his squire. ‘The gods be damned. I’ll teach the dog a lesson myself.’
‘But if you kill him––’
‘I won’t lay a finger on him. I’ll let the river do the work.’
‘You’ll flood the city?’
‘Destroy the homes of innocent families just to spite their ruler? No, I have something much better in mind,’ Heracles said, with a wry smile. ‘But first, I have a breach to finish and a trench to dig.’
He squinted at the sun, low in the east, and Iolaus guessed he was judging how long he would have before it set again. Not enough time by half, he thought. The distance from the breach to the stables was twice the length of the channel he had dug during the night, and the new course had to be dug in just under the same amount of time.
‘I’ll go see if they’ve found those spare spades I asked for,’ he said, and set off for the palace.
* * *
Heracles now threw all his energies into cutting the trench that would save Elis from flooding. After finishing the breach in the ramparts, he laid the blocks of stone at intervals in a line that reached up to the south wall of the stables. Then he began to dig. Half the soil was piled up into a long bank on the eastern side of the channel, to act as an extra defence against the river overrunning and spreading towards the city. The remainder was heaped into the wagons and sent to wait by the north bridge.
But by the time the sun was at its zenith, less than half the trench had been completed. Heracles’s strength was beginning to flag, and he had to push himself harder and harder to shovel up each spade of earth and throw it onto the embankment or into the backs of the remaining carts. With each movement, his muscles seemed to stiffen, until it took as much effort to move them as to lift the weight of the soil. He toiled on, his mind drifting frequently into a standing sleep, during which he would dig without thinking and only wake when the spade fell from his grip or he stumbled over some unnoticed obstacle.
It was then that Iolaus showed his worth. He talked to his uncle about whatever came to mind. At first, Heracles heard his voice through an exhausted haze, responding to his questions with grunts or simple nods. But his nephew persisted, and as he turned his monologue to memories of Megara and the children, so Heracles’s mind began to respond. In his state of physical and mental fatigue, he found he could remember the boys’ faces clearly. Before, he had barely been able to think of them without succumbing to attacks of guilt, which only served to bury the memories deeper into the fissures of his mind. Now they were freed again: joyful recollections of carrying them on his shoulders, or chasing them through the orchards and fields; of simple family meals on the lawn behind their house, with the summer sun shining in Megara’s hair, and the sense of completeness that he had never felt before, and would never do again.
As the memories stirred him back to wakefulness and revived his flagging strength, he also recalled the darkness. Flashes of their faces, pale and lifeless beneath the floating shadow of the curtains. The feeling of utter helplessness and loss. By now, Iolaus had turned his conversation to the battles with the Hydra and the Erymanthean Boar. But all Heracles could think about was his family, and what he had done to them. He thought of finding out who had drugged him, and how he would take his revenge, and soon all vestiges of tiredness were flung aside. He threw himself back into his work, aware that the sun was now more than halfway between noon and sunset.
By the time it was touching the top of the hill, the channel was finished. It was not as deep as the one he had cut the night before, but it would serve its purpose. Sending the last wagon towards the bridge, he told Iolaus to fetch a length of strong rope from the palace.
Ignoring the southern wall of the stables that he had originally intended to breach, he followed the circuit around to the western side. The wall was well built and his limbs were almost rigid with exhaustion, but he tore it down stone by stone until the dark enclosure within was revealed in all its foul-smelling vileness. As he pulled down the lowest third of the wall, the slurry spilled out over his legs. Burying his arms into the mess, he continued dragging the last of the stones from the wall and tossing them to one side.
Soon, the work was complete and he pulled himself free, vomiting into the mess as he retreated. Iolaus reappeared, eyeing him with disgust as he gave him the coil of leather rope. Silently, they walked to the north gate and along the road to the river. As he had done the night before, Heracles ordered the wagons onto the bridge and began emptying the soil into the river. After the fourth load, the water began overflowing the banks and he knew the time had come to finish the labour.
By now, the herdsmen were bringing their cattle in from the fields and down to the other side of the bridge, which was still blocked by the fourth wagon. Ignoring their shouts, he jumped into the empty trench and opened the gates to the stables. Then he tied one end of the rope around his waist and the other round the trunk of an olive tree on the bank of the river. Taking a spade, he summoned the last of his strength for the wall of soil that remained between the Peneius and the channel he had cut. He was about to find out whether his plan to redirect the river through the stables had been an inspiration that would bring him a step closer to freedom, or whether it had been a folly that would end in miserable failure.
At that moment, the clatter of hooves echoed between the walls of the gate-tower. He turned to see Augeias’s chariot, carrying the king and Copreus, followed by several others manned by drivers and archers.
‘Stop!’ Augeias ordered. ‘Stop, or you will be shot where you stand.’
Someone had seen the breach in the west wall of the stables and guessed the form of Heracles’s revenge. The sun was almost down and Elis and the surrounding valley lay in shadow. Gambling that the twilight would throw the aim of Augeias’s archers, Heracles plunged the point of his spade into the soil and dragged a large chunk free.
‘Shoot him!’
An arrow whistled past his ear and buried itself in the soil. Another thumped into the satchel at his hip. He thrust the spade a second time into the wall of the trench and pulled out another great wad of dirt, and then another. A volley of arrows hissed around him. One clanged off the head of his spade, and another sliced across the top of his arm and drew blood. They would not miss again.
‘Heracles!’
Iolaus ran to the piled earth at the side of the trench and tossed something to him. It opened out like a blanket, and as Heracles caught a corner, he realized it was his lion-skin cloak. He threw it around his shoulders, and with renewed determination continued his attack against the earthen barrier.
The air filled with the hum of bowstrings and several arrows whistled past his ears, missing him by the closest of margins, while others thumped against the impenetrable black hide and sprang off again. Then, as he pulled out a slab of clay from the bottom of the dam, the whole section above it collapsed, pushed inward by the pressure of the waiting river. Suddenly, the water poured in, taking the remainder of the dirt wall with it.
Heracles turned to run, but was immediately swept from his feet and dragged along by the rush of water. The force of the current pulled him under, filling his mouth and nostrils with icy liquid. As his body twisted with the motion of the water, all he could hear was the beating of his own heart as the pressure on his eardrums increased. His vision became a confusion of swirling white bubbles against a grey background. Then his back scraped against the bottom of the trench and he was propelled upwards. Water gave way to air and the brightness of the grey skies. He gasped for breath, then choked up water, before being dragged under again.
And then, with a sudden jerk, the rope around his waist snapped taut. He was thrown against the wall of the trench, thrust helplessly aside by the charging river. Reaching out for purchase, his fingers sank into the mud ramparts he had built along the sides of the channel. It crumbled and gave way beneath his desperate grip. Then he felt another jerk of the rope, and looked down to see that the knot around his waist had unravelled. An instant later, it gave way and he felt the pressure of the river sucking him towards the mouth of the stables, where he would drown in thirty years of accumul
ated effluence.
Then a hand grabbed his wrist. He glanced up and saw Iolaus’s face, straining to hold onto his great weight. As his nephew’s grip began to slip, another pair of hands seized his upper arm. More hands took hold of his cloak, and then his leg, heaving him free of the cascading waters. They dragged him over the wall of mud and onto the grass beyond, where he rolled onto his back and gulped at the air. The next moment, he was on his side, his stomach in spasms as it forced the water from his lungs and stomach.
As he lay there, a wave of tiredness threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to give in to it, but knew he could not. Not yet. Slumping onto his back, he opened his eyes to see Iolaus’s concerned face hovering over his own.
‘It’s working!’ his squire exclaimed. ‘The river’s pouring through the stables and washing everything away.’
‘Thank the gods,’ Heracles said, allowing himself a tired smile. ‘And thank you for pulling me out.’
‘I couldn’t have managed it alone,’ Iolaus said.
Heracles forced himself up onto his elbows and saw that he was surrounded by several cowherds.
‘We laughed when they said someone had offered to clean out the stables,’ said an old man. ‘But you did it. For the first time in three decades, we’ll be free of that stench. The pestilence will end and those that fled Elis will come back. Thanks to you, we won’t be shunned any more.’
He offered his hand and helped Heracles back to his feet. Suddenly, the tiredness in his limbs threatened to bring him crashing back to the ground again, but several arms shot out to steady him. Looking around himself, he saw that the depth of the Peneius had fallen again and was being held by the dam he had made. Instead, its waters were coursing along the trench he had dug and through the gates of the stables. The wagons were still on the bridge, with the vast herds of cattle waiting on the other side, filling the air with their lowing. Of Augeias, Copreus and the archers, there was no sign.
