by Glyn Iliffe
The people in the villages they passed were surly and spoke only if spoken to. On the second day, they came to a fork in the road that led east towards a city on the edge of a lake. By its size, Heracles guessed that this was Orchomenus itself. Not wishing to enter its walls, he urged the oxen forward.
Soon after dawn on the third day, they entered the land of Locris, which bordered the north-western reaches of the Euboean Strait. Though the rain stopped, the skies remained as grey as the mountains below. Iolaus suggested they find a harbour and a galley heading towards Thrace, but Heracles just shook his head. And so the journey continued, day after day, passing from Locris to Phthia before turning north-east towards Thessaly. The iron skies gave way to blue, followed by grey again and more rain. And all the time it was cold.
Eventually, they reached a city that overlooked the broad Pagasaean Gulf, which was shaped like the fleece of a sheep. The skies were clear now, leaving only broad strips of white cloud that allowed the sun to shine through and warm their cold limbs as they drove slowly along the rutted track towards the city gates. Another road led to an enclosed harbour farther down the slope, in which they could see the masts of a dozen merchant ships.
‘This is Pherae,’ Heracles announced. ‘Home of King Admetus. If anyone knows about this Diomedes, he will. Thracian raiders have been attacking cities along the Magnesian coast to the east of here for many years, and Admetus and his people have fought with them many times.’
Two guards stood by the open gates, watching the slow approach of the wagon. After a quick discussion, one disappeared back through the gates, while his companion held up his hand for the wagon to stop.
‘Heracles?’ he said, shielding his eyes against the sun as it sank into the distant mountains. ‘Is it really you? What in the names of all the gods are you doing here?’
‘Carnus!’ Heracles said with a laugh, jumping down and embracing the soldier. ‘It’s good to see you again. I’m surprised you can still hold a spear and shield at your age.’
They laughed and embraced again. Then Carnus stood back, his hands on Heracles’s shoulders as he stared into his eyes.
‘I’ve heard terrible things about you. Tell me they aren’t true.’
‘I wish I could, old friend,’ Heracles replied, the joy in his eyes dimming. ‘I’ll say more when I’m before the king.’
The other guard reappeared a few moments later, accompanied by two more soldiers and a man in rich robes. The latter named himself as Lacius, herald to the king, and asked Heracles and Iolaus to come with him. Leaving the ox cart in Carnus’s care, Heracles followed Lacius and his guards through the gates.
At first sight, Pherae was no different to most other Greek cities. The streets were narrow and lined by simple stone houses, where women sat at open doorways grinding corn or feeding babies as they chatted with neighbours. Their children played on the dung-littered road, running between heavily laden carts drawn by plodding oxen. The air was filled with the shouts of merchants, bakers, fishermen and farmers, whose wooden stalls were shielded from the sun by flax awnings. The aroma of their goods – pungent vegetables, briny fish, colourful spices and warm bread – competed with the smell of animals and the sweating bodies of the people that crowded the streets. But there was a difference: something in the patterned woollen cloaks the men wore and the cut of their beards; in the way the women styled their hair; and in the manner of their speech – thickly accented and with a smattering of words that few other Greeks would recognize. It was familiar and strange at the same time.
Lacius’s robes and staff of office seemed to impress no one, and his guards were obliged to go ahead and jostle the townsfolk out of the way. The outer ring of the city was small compared to Tiryns and Thebes, and they were soon at the gates of the citadel. Here, a pair of guards was playing dice. They gave a passing glance at Lacius and the two strangers in his wake, then returned to their game. The town had been built on a slope, but as they passed through the only gate in the wall that protected the inner circle of the city, the slant became dramatically steeper. The guards turned left, up a ramp that passed between rows of two-storey houses. Here, the streets were peopled only by a few slaves, priests and soldiers. All seemed taken with their own business, though none were too busy to stop and stare at the giant figure of Heracles as he strode up the cobbled ramp.
At the top, the road turned back on itself and headed to the right, between more houses, eventually reaching a flat, open courtyard flanked by low huts on the left and stables on the right. A chariot was propped against the stable wall, its yoke pointing into the air like the mast of a ship, and from within Heracles could hear and smell numerous horses. On the other side of the neatly raked courtyard was another two-storey building. It was wide with a columned portico that led to a large pair of ornately carved doors. The walls of the palace were painted in faded ochre – though in several places the plaster had flaked away – and the pillars that supported the roof of the porch had once been powder blue, though now they were grimy and weathered. It was not the home of a wealthy ruler, but Heracles smiled fondly at the sight of it.
‘Wait here, please,’ Lacius said.
Leaving them in the care of the two spearmen, he opened one of the carved doors and disappeared inside. Heracles looked back at the view of the gulf and the harbour below. The far shore was marked by low hills, which parted to give access to a wide channel of water. This led eastward to the Myrtoan Sea – at the near edge of the much wider Aegean – which was lost in the haze of approaching evening.
‘This is a strange place,’ Iolaus said, admiring the panorama. ‘It looks Greek and it feels Greek, but there’s something different about it, too. Something foreign.’
‘We’re at the northern border of the Greek-speaking peoples,’ Heracles said. ‘Pheraeans spend half their time fighting off raiders from the north and the east, and the other half trading with them. All that contact with foreigners leaves its mark.’
Iolaus gave him a sidelong glance.
‘You seem to know these people well.’
‘Not well, but I know them. When I was preparing Thebes for war with Erginus, I sent word to all the cities of the north for help. Only Admetus responded, sending his son and fifty men to our aid. Carnus was one of them. He was old even then, though no one could question his fighting skills. He’s a good man with a spear and a shield.’
The door opened and Lacius beckoned to them. They followed him into a shadowy chamber, lit by a single torch. At the far end, a door opened onto a larger room, though they could see little beyond the burly figure who guarded the entrance. As they approached, the soldier propped his spear against the doorjamb and reached out, taking Heracles by the wrist.
‘I didn’t believe it when they told me you were back,’ he said, embracing him. ‘Have you brought us another war to fight?’
‘Not this time, Xuthus,’ Heracles replied. ‘All I’m after is a ship.’
They passed through into a modest hall, with no supporting pillars and a square hearth that pumped sparks up towards an aperture in the ceiling. The walls were much as Heracles remembered them, though the crude friezes of various gods – mostly Olympians, but with a handful of strange deities worshipped by the northern tribes – had been further obscured by another eight or nine years of smoke. The plaster was cracked and blackened from the harsh winters, and had flaked away in places without being replaced.
Half a dozen female slaves stood in the shadows. As the men entered, three came forward with chairs and a table, which they set down in front of the hearth. The others followed them with bowls, platters of food and cups of wine. At the back of the hall was a dais with two stone chairs. One was empty, though a thick animal skin suggested an absent occupant. In the other sat a large man, slightly stooped with age and with a beard of shaggy grey hair that reached down to his stomach. As Lacius indicated the seats to the newcomers, the old man pushed himself up from his chair and left the dais. He took Heracles’s wrist in a f
ierce grip.
‘Welcome, old friend.’
‘My lord Admetus,’ Heracles replied, his face broadening with a smile.
‘Move the chairs closer,’ the king told his slaves. ‘Heracles and his companion will share my dais. And bring our cups if we’re to honour the gods.’
The slaves brought their wine and Admetus poured a generous libation into the flames. He closed his eyes and turned the palm of his free hand upwards as he prayed for the blessing of the gods. Heracles and Iolaus tipped a slop from their own cups into the hearth, then followed Admetus as he turned and walked stiffly back to his throne.
‘I heard about your sons, Heracles,’ he said, lowering himself into the seat with a groan. ‘I am so sorry. I know you couldn’t have committed this deed – not the real you, the man I love and respect.’
Heracles nodded, but said nothing.
‘I find it almost as hard to believe you’ve given yourself to Eurystheus as his bondsman. I’ve never met him and I hope I never do. He sounds like an idiot.’
‘He is,’ Iolaus added.
‘This is Iolaus, my brother’s son,’ Heracles said.
‘Ah, Iphicles,’ Admetus said, nodding sagely as he eyed the youth. ‘They say your father’s an adviser to Eurystheus now.’
‘You’re as well-informed as ever, my lord,’ Heracles answered, ‘despite living at the furthest edge of civilization.’
‘All the more reason not to be ignorant. Knowledge is a powerful weapon, and up here we need all the weapons we can get. And don’t expect to leave before you’ve told me a few things about affairs in the south, Heracles.’
‘Gladly, if you’ll tell me something of your neighbours in exchange.’
‘Near neighbours or far?’
‘A Thracian king – Diomedes,’ Heracles said, shaking his head to show he had not heard of him.
Admetus narrowed his eyes and gave a brief nod.
‘King of the Bistones. Fierce warriors, to a man. He lives in a city on the coast – Tirida. A good ship’ll get you there in a few days. I can find one for you, if you’re heading that way.’
‘I am,’ Heracles replied.
He took a swallow of the wine, which was mixed with an unfamiliar blend of spices. Admetus joined him and together the two men folded slices of cold meat into pieces of flat bread and ate in silence. Iolaus bit into a cut of beef, which he chewed rapidly and washed down with a mouthful of wine.
‘My lord, do you know anything about King Diomedes’s mares?’ he asked.
Admetus looked up from his food and wiped the grease from his beard.
‘You remind me of my youngest son – eager and much too impatient. When you get to my age, you realize everything comes in time and conversation is better on a full stomach. And as far as I’m aware, all kings have horses, don’t they? Why do you want to know?’
‘The gods have said I’m to complete ten labours before I can be absolved of my crime,’ Heracles said. ‘The first was to kill the Lion of Nemea.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Admetus said. ‘The travelling bards are already singing about it, or so I’m told.’
‘Then perhaps they also tell of the Ceryneian Hind and the many-headed Hydra, the Erymanthean Boar and the stables of King Augeias––’
‘The bronze-beaked birds of Stymphalus,’ Iolaus added proudly, ‘and the Cretan Bull.’
‘The one they say fathered a monster on Minos’s wife?’ Admetus asked. ‘That would make for a long tale. But the best bards will wait until the story is finished, and there are only another three to go.’
‘Only?’ Heracles said, raising an eyebrow at the king. ‘Every labour is considered impossible, and of the seven, two have been denied me by Eurystheus. Which leaves five more.’
‘And the first is to capture Diomedes’s mares?’
‘Yes. But I know nothing about them. I was hoping you––’
Admetus shook his head.
‘Sorry, my friend – I haven’t heard about any horses. But I have heard other things about Diomedes, and if there’s any way you can abandon this task, then I advise you to do so.’ Admetus paused to sip at his wine. He waited for a slave to recharge his cup before going on. ‘It’s said that none who visit his palace ever leave again. Whether he murders them or enslaves them, no one knows. But one thing is obvious: Diomedes is no respecter of xenia.’
Heracles smiled.
‘Good. Then I’ll have no qualms about helping myself to his horses. An honourable host would have made the task much harder.’
‘It’ll be hard enough anyway, my friend,’ Admetus warned. ‘These Bistones are a brutal and violent race. Once Diomedes has you trapped inside his palace, even you couldn’t overcome them all. Let me lend you some of my men as an escort.’
Heracles shook his head.
‘The labours are for me alone, my lord. It was because Iolaus fired a few arrows at the Hydra that the task was denied me. So, you see, I can’t ask for help from anyone.’
‘I understand,’ Admetus said, rising with difficulty from his seat. ‘Then we will make sacrifices to the gods in your name, and ask them to guide and protect you in this endeavour. And I will speak to one of the merchant captains in the harbour for you, an old friend of mine. His galley departs for Troy in the morning, via the coast of Thrace.’
* * *
The sky in the east was growing pale as Heracles and Iolaus left the city gates the next morning and followed the road down to the harbour. Several fishing boats could be seen far out on the waters of the gulf, discernable only by their grey sails as they bobbed up and down on the waves. A few lamps were burning on the galleys that lay at anchor in the small port, and the chill breeze rolling up from the sea brought with it the smell of brine and cooking fires.
Several stone fishermen’s cottages were clustered around the harbour. There was a space for unloading goods, which – judging by the empty wooden stalls – was also a market when the fishermen returned with their catch. A handful of women were moving around in the pre-dawn darkness, wearing long dresses and with woollen shawls covering their heads and shoulders. On the shingle beach, a small group of men was loading clay jars onto a boat, ready to row out to one of the half-dozen ships in the harbour.
‘That must be the crew we’re looking for,’ Iolaus said, stifling a yawn.
But as they headed towards the beach, a figure approached them from the shadow of the nearby cottages. He was dark-skinned with a hooked nose and a closely cropped beard. He looked them over – lingering as much on Iolaus’s youthful good looks as Heracles’s extraordinary size – then offered them a smile.
‘You must be Heracles,’ he said. ‘I was told to look out for a giant in a lion’s skin. I’m Dresos; you’ll be sailing with me to Thrace.’
Heracles took his proffered hand in a firm grip.
‘Which one’s yours?’
‘That one,’ Dresos said.
He pointed to a large vessel with its mast and cross-spar fitted and its sail hoisted up, ready to unfurl. An old ship, it had been patched and repaired many times, though it was clean and well maintained. The deck was crammed with cargo hidden beneath tarpaulins. A crew of at least a dozen men sat huddled on the benches, wrapped in double-cloaks and with their hoods pulled up against the breeze. It was evident the arrival of their passengers was all that had been preventing them from starting their voyage. Dresos led them down to a rowing boat, where an old man sat watching their approach. As they came nearer, he stepped out and pushed the boat into the water. They jumped in beside him and he rowed them out to the galley. Soon, they were on deck and Dresos was shouting orders for the anchor stones to be hauled up and the oars to be pushed out into the water.
‘Sit where you please,’ he told his passengers. ‘Things are a bit more crowded than usual, so you’ll just have to make room.’
‘We’ll row,’ Heracles said.
He sent Iolaus to the nearest bench, while he sat on the other side. A single oarsman was there, ho
oded and cloaked. He shuffled farther along the bench, but said nothing as Heracles took hold of the oar. Soon, orders were given to start rowing. The galley slipped quietly between the other vessels, out beyond the harbour wall and into the Pagasaean Gulf. By now, the sky was a pale blue and the eastern horizon was like a band of fire, awaiting the appearance of the sun. The only sounds were the trickle of water from the oars and the cries of seabirds as they hovered behind the ship. Then Dresos shouted the order for the oars to be hauled in and for the sail to be unfurled.
Heracles watched as the sail caught the wind with a snap, sending the galley darting eastward through the waves. The motion of the ship changed in an instant, and he felt a sense of excitement at the prospect of a sea voyage to a new land. The light on the horizon was growing, turning the bands of cloud above into strips of shining gold. Slowly, the tip of the sun showed itself above the black hills that marked the edge of the gulf. At first, it was nothing more than a white lozenge, squeezing itself up from the ends of the earth. It was soon a ball of fierce yellow, detaching itself from the horizon and rising up into the clouds. He had seen many sunrises, but never became so used to them that they did not hold his attention.
He turned to the man beside him. If Dresos’s ship plied this route regularly, he would know something of the peoples and cities on the Thracian coast.
‘I am Heracles,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘I know who you are,’ the man replied, taking his hand and standing. ‘We all do.’
Several other men now stood, keeping their hoods up as they turned to face Heracles. One of them threw open a hatch near the helm and reached down to help a figure scramble out. A dozen others followed, all of them cloaked and hooded.
Withdrawing to the mast, Heracles drew his bow and fitted an arrow. He signalled for Iolaus, who slipped the sword from his scabbard as he joined him.
