by Glyn Iliffe
‘The king will see you,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
The gates opened into a cool, shadowy porch, lit by a single sputtering torch. A few paces in, a flight of narrow stairs climbed into darkness. The soldier took the torch and led them up the steps, which ended in a windowless passage with closed doors on either side. They followed this to another flight of stairs that took them up to a windowless chamber. Their guide placed his torch in an empty bracket and opened a door to their left. It led out onto a long, wide terrace overlooking the valley to the north, through which Heracles and Iolaus had passed earlier. Though the last of the afternoon sunlight still rested brightly on the upper hills, the land below was steeped in shadow.
At the back of the terrace, the walls of the upper palace were decorated with colourful murals, in which life-sized men and women accompanied herds of cattle and sheep in a sacrificial procession. At their head was a man dressed in a black tunic and a purple cloak, followed by a woman robed in the white garments of a priestess. Their arms were raised upwards in a gesture of worship towards a man seated on a golden throne in the midst of the sea. He was twice their size – his head and shoulders reaching up to the next storey of the whitewashed wall – and the trident held in his right hand confirmed him as Poseidon. A milk-white bull was wading through the waves towards the beach where the man and woman stood.
‘This way,’ the soldier said, beckoning them through an open doorway to their right.
A single spearman stood guard, eyeing the foreigners with curiosity as they passed. The doorway led to a cloistered passageway with a plain wall to the left and a row of red-brown pillars to the right, through which they could see the tree-covered western flanks of the valley. Their guide turned left into a wide passage that led to a pair of doors guarded by two further soldiers. They pulled the doors open and Heracles and Iolaus walked out into the courtyard they had seen from the ridge.
It was much larger than it had seemed from a distance. The sun had now retreated behind the surrounding buildings, leaving the courtyard in shadow, though the surrounding walls were lined with torches and the sacrificial fires still burned brightly. Hundreds of voices were raised in conversation, while the sound of music and singing gave the place a festive mood. Slaves moved from guest to guest, taking away empty platters and bringing new ones piled high with food. Others replenished cups emptied of wine. The air was filled with the smell of smoke, roast meat and spiced wine, a combination that awoke Heracles’s rarely satisfied appetite.
A man stepped forward to meet them. He was dressed in long, many-coloured robes that reached down to his ankles, and a studded tunic that was open at the front, revealing a shaved chest glistening with oil. His thick black hair hung in long ringlets down to the middle of his back, and in his right hand, he held a tall staff. He smiled and bowed low before them. Heracles and Iolaus gave curt nods in response.
‘Welcome, my lords. May I please take your weapons?’
Reluctantly, Heracles slipped the bow from his shoulder and handed it to the waiting herald, who passed it to their escort. His club, dagger and quiver followed. Iolaus unbuckled his sword and gave it to the soldier.
‘Watch over them carefully,’ Heracles warned him.
‘You weapons will be well looked after,’ the herald assured him. ‘Please, follow me.’
He led them across the courtyard. The tumult of conversation faltered slightly as people watched the approach of the newcomers. Though both men and women were bare-chested, it only took a glance for Heracles to see that all the guests were of noble blood. The younger men boasted physiques honed in sports and weapons practice, rather than from driving the plough or hauling nets filled with fish. Their hands looked soft – more used to grasping javelins or cups of wine than oars or wood-axes – and their tanned skin was well-oiled. The older men displayed large stomachs, a symbol of their ability to feed themselves to excess, and therefore of their wealth. They were nothing like the fishermen, farmers or shepherds he had passed on the way to the palace, men whose bodies were tough and wiry, with shoulders that sloped and backs that bent in accordance with their age and years of hard work.
The women at the tables wore their hair in intricate plaits, which must have taken their body slaves the best part of the afternoon to curl and tie. Their skin was pale, having been anxiously shielded from exposure to the sun since childhood; and their faces were whiter still, with the careful application of layers of powder. From this pallid base, their red lips and black-rimmed eyes stood out starkly. But no amount of face paint could hide the looks they gave the muscular giant and his younger companion as they passed by. Even the older women were openly lascivious in their stares, few caring that their husbands were beside them as they discussed the build and looks of the foreign visitors.
‘Embarrassed?’ Heracles asked his nephew.
‘No!’ Iolaus protested, denying the colour in his cheeks.
‘You should be, with what I can hear them saying about you. And they’re not just talking about your good looks.’
They followed the herald into the space formed by the tables, which was much larger than anything Heracles had seen on the mainland. There, feasts were snug affairs, with the guests seated close to the bard or the troop of dancers providing the entertainment. Here, there was almost enough space to throw a discus. In the middle of the longest row of tables, on the western side of the courtyard, was a dais. On it were two high-backed chairs and a table covered in beaten gold, which gleamed dully in the slowly fading light.
A tall man with a broad chest sat on one of the chairs, watching the newcomers with large, keen eyes, set beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows that met in the middle. He had a prominent nose and a black moustache that swamped his upper lip. His chin was bearded, and though the rest of his wide jaw was shaved, the day’s growth already showed dark on his tanned skin. The tips of his moustache and the sides of his beard were grey, as were the broad stripes of hair that sprouted from his temples and were swept back over his ears. Above his forehead, he wore a golden diadem with a large ruby at its centre. Like every other man except the herald, King Minos was bare-chested and wore a skirt that reached to his knees, though his was woven from many colours and hemmed with gold. From the greying hair and the crease lines at the corners of his eyes, Heracles guessed he had passed his fiftieth year.
The woman beside him was younger by at least a decade. The skin of her arms and breasts was pale and still supple with youth. Her neck, too, was long and smooth, and if there were any lines on her face, then the white powder hid them well. Her lips were as red as those of the other highborn women and her eyes as darkly lined, though the effect was more powerful and less forced. But she did not have to try as hard as the others, for she knew she was more beautiful than them all. Her confidence only added to her attraction, forcefully drawing Heracles’s gaze again and again. Nothing about her seemed laboured. Her hair was like a mass of shadow, exquisitely black, as if no light could fall upon it without being absorbed utterly; and though curled and dressed to perfection, it seemed to be that way by nature. The ornately detailed crescents of gold that hung from her ears and the loop of delicate golden flowers suspended around her neck added to and emphasized her beauty.
Yet the serene and beautiful exterior was a veil, hiding unhappiness and secret desire. Heracles knew it the moment his eyes met hers, though what was at the heart of her discontent would remain hidden. For now.
‘My lord and lady,’ the herald said with a low bow. Then, turning, he swept his arm towards the two men. ‘The lords Heracles, son of Zeus, and Iolaus, son of Iphicles.’
Heracles cast a sidelong glance at Iolaus, who gave a discreet shake of his head to show he had not given the herald their names or lineage.
‘Why do you look so surprised?’ Minos asked. ‘Do you think that we here in Crete have not heard of the great Heracles and his labours? Or of Iolaus, his loyal squire? Had I received warning of your visit, I would have commanded my bard to compose a
song in your honour. Surely, Heracles, by overpowering the invincible Lion of Nemea, and destroying the scourge of the Lernean Swamp – the seven-headed Hydra – you have shown the quality of the blood that runs in your veins. In our veins.’
The guests fell silent as their king spoke, and remained so as they awaited the newcomer’s reply. Heracles hesitated. What was he expected to say? At his first sight of Minos – with his stern looks and powerful build – he sensed a resemblance to himself that could only have come from their shared father. And for a moment he thought he might like him – that they might have qualities in common, mutual experiences and needs as bastard sons that could lead to understanding and… And what, he wondered? Friendship? Was that not what he had always wanted, since boyhood? A brother who was his equal?
But as the king spoke, Heracles’s hopes faded. He did not want to be greeted with a song, sung by a stranger who could have no real knowledge of what he had suffered or why. And if Minos made mention of his labours, was it not simply to bathe in the reflected glory? Did not the blood that ran in Heracles’s veins also run in his, he had said aloud, for all his people to hear. Minos had no interest in Heracles the man, only in his name and how he could profit by it. Like all kings, he was only concerned for himself; if he showed interest in others, it was because he felt there was something to be gained from them.
Heracles opened his mouth, intending to offer a brief word of thanks and state the purpose of his visit. But Pasiphaë spoke first.
‘And why have you come to Crete, Heracles, son of Zeus?’
She looked at him with a strange intensity, as if daring him to speak the truth.
‘To capture the Great Bull,’ he answered, using the name the guards had given it. ‘To capture it and take it back to King Eurystheus of Tiryns, who will sacrifice it to Hera.’
The silence around him grew as taut as a bowstring. He sensed the gathered nobles did not know whether to cry out in astonishment or laugh at the preposterous audacity of the man before them. Either way, no one dared make a sound until they were given a lead by their king and queen.
‘To capture the Bull?’ Pasiphaë echoed. ‘You have the nerve to come here uninvited – a foreigner and an outcast from your own home city – intending to hunt a sacred animal in our land, without leave of the king?’
Now the silence was total – not a word, not a gasp, not even the drawing of a breath. Heracles thought of his bow and club, in the care of the man who had escorted them to the courtyard. He glanced at the men seated at the tables. None were armed, but there were several meat knives on the platters and chopping boards. From the edges of his vision, he sensed the slight stiffening of the lines of spearmen who stood guard behind the tables. They knew as well as he did that nothing could prevent him from snatching up a knife and holding it to their king’s throat. But what then?
Minos stood.
‘Then I grant you leave, Heracles. Hunt the Great Bull and capture it, if you can. But first you and Iolaus will join our feast.’
He nodded to his herald, who signalled to slaves to bring chairs. As one was placed beside the king’s throne and the other beside the queen’s – a great honour indeed – Minos stepped around the golden table and opened his arms towards Heracles.
‘Brother! My dear Brother, welcome to my home.’
Suddenly, the silence collapsed around them in cheers of joy and shouts of laughter. Iolaus gave Heracles a discreet nudge, and he stepped forward into King Minos’s embrace. The two men clutched at each other in a show of unification and love – Minos basking in the association with a man renowned and admired across all the cities and classes of Greece, and Heracles keen that there should be no further barriers to the completion of his labour. Yet a single glance at Pasiphaë showed that the queen did not share the elation of her husband and his guests.
‘Come, Heracles,’ Minos said. ‘Sit beside me and let us talk – of impossible labours and absent fathers. Iolaus, please, be seated beside my queen. I am sure she will be glad of the company of one so young and handsome.’
Heracles lowered himself into the fur-covered chair and Minos sat beside him, lifting his golden platter at once and scraping half the meat from it onto Heracles’s plate. By the delighted smiles and approving whispers of the watching nobles, this was clearly another great honour. Heracles nodded at his brother and rolled a slice of meat into a piece of bread, which he stuffed into his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his nephew bow low before Pasiphaë and kiss the hand that she offered him, before taking his own seat. Heracles smiled to himself. For a mere youth, he displayed a natural charm that would win him many hearts when he was older.
Slaves brought wine and piled the tables with platters of meat, fish, bread and selections of delicacies for the guests to pick at. Minos gave his guests time to appreciate the luxury of the banquet, set against the grand backdrop of the palace, with its four storeys, its many windows and doors and colonnades, and the strange horn-shaped stone sculptures that stood in rows on its flat roofs. Then he leaned in and spoke in a confidential whisper.
‘Have you ever seen him? Has he ever revealed himself to you?’
So, Heracles thought, they did have some common concerns.
‘Not that I remember.’ He noted the guarded look of satisfaction – relief, even – on Minos’s face. ‘And you? Surely, he has shown himself to his most beloved son. After all, he made you the greatest king in the whole of the Greek-speaking world.’
Flattery was difficult for him, but his instinct told him not to offend his brother’s pride. Minos had made a show of welcoming him to relieve the tension created by Pasiphaë’s challenge. But his intention was as much to win the approval of the watching nobles at her expense – a small victory in an ongoing war between them, perhaps. Let him feel equal or superior, Heracles thought, as long as it meant he could get on with the labour – and ask the question that he was desperate to have answered. But not yet.
‘I’ve seen him, yes,’ Minos answered. ‘In a dream, before I became king.’
A dream, Heracles thought. Anyone can dream about the gods.
‘It was a portent, then, of the greatness to come. I’m envious of you, Minos. And impressed.’
Minos nodded and slapped him on the back.
‘Thank you, Brother. Thank you. No doubt he will come to you, too. Perhaps when these labours of yours are complete. They were commanded by the gods, I hear.’
‘The oracle, yes.’
‘Tell me about them,’ Minos said, glancing up at the black-maned lion’s head sitting atop Heracles’s. ‘Is it true you killed the Nemean Lion with your bare hands?’
Heracles retold the story of his first labour. He was no bard and the details seemed vague now, and of little interest to himself, though Minos listened in rapt silence. Yet, despite being keen to gain his brother’s favour, he found himself distracted. Pasiphaë and Iolaus’s conversation was much more light-hearted and filled with smiles and laughter. Strangely, it made Heracles jealous to watch them, wishing that Minos had asked him to sit with his wife while Iolaus was forced to tell the story of the Hydra or one of the other labours where he had been present. Only once did she glance at him, the flash of her beautiful eyes seeming full of hidden meaning, and leaving him wanting more.
Despite his lack of enthusiasm for his own tale, he found that the men and women on the neighbouring tables had abandoned their conversations and were listening intently to him. Often, their emotions would overflow into gasps or exclamations of disbelief, and when the story ended with the reunion of one of the lion’s captives with her father (he was careful to avoid mention of the return to Tiryns and his humiliation of King Eurystheus) they applauded and banged fists or wine cups on the tables. To Heracles’s pleasure, their commotion rewarded him with a second glance from Pasiphaë.
‘My lord,’ said the herald, approaching the king. ‘Do you want me to dismiss the performers?’
‘No,’ Minos replied. ‘No, bring them in. My
brother and Iolaus will be pleased to see the bravery and skill of our young men and women.’
The herald bowed, then raised his arm and gave a signal. At once, the soldiers around the outside of the tables rushed through into the inner square, spears and cowhide shields at the ready. Heracles sat up uneasily, wondering what would happen. Then, at a shouted order from the herald, they locked their shields together and knelt, forming a wall in front of the rows of tables. A hum of excitement stirred the guests from their seats, those on the inside of the tables hurrying round to cram themselves onto the outer benches.
A moment later, a pair of gates on the opposite side of the square swung open and several men ran out to rapturous cheers. Heracles craned his neck to get a better look at them. Most were around the same age as Iolaus, though a few were older. All were tall and lightly muscled, with tanned bodies and wearing coloured loincloths. Only then did he notice that three were young women, their small breasts barely distinguishable as they ran. The group waved to the benches, revelling in the adulation of the nobles. Then – as if at an unspoken command – they sprang forward in a series of somersaults, leaps and cartwheels, executed with the speed and flair of a troupe of dancers.
But somehow, Heracles knew they were not dancers, or even acrobats. Almost all of them – even the girls – wore scars on various parts of their torsos and limbs, some fresh and pink, others old and brown. The presence of young women among them and their lack of armour or weapons ruled out any possibility they were there to fight, either.
They took up positions within the large space closed off by the shields. Following a series of calls, they ran towards each other in pairs, with one leaping over his or her partner. Often they cleared each other without making contact; sometimes, one would cup his hands beneath the foot of the other and throw them high in the air, where they would spin two or three times before landing lightly. More acts of strength and agility followed, each receiving wild applause and cheers.
