WRATH OF THE GODS

by Glyn Iliffe

  ‘Stand aside, lad,’ Xuthus said, reaching forward and seizing the Bistone roughly by the arm. ‘Let me do it, Heracles. They were my friends, Carnus most of all.’

  The fourth horse strained towards the stable door, pulling against its iron chains and stamping its hooves as it eyed its next meal. It whinnied and snorted loudly, driven into a frenzy by its craving for human flesh. Its red eyes and sharp teeth gave it a fearsome look, and the herald was weeping aloud as he stared at it.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Iolaus insisted. ‘We need to harness these monsters to a chariot if we’re ever going to drive them out of here. He’s the only one who knows how to do it.’

  ‘Those creatures can never be harnessed,’ Xuthus said, still holding the herald’s arm. ‘You’re better off killing them, Heracles, and taking their corpses back with you to Tiryns. It’s your only hope.’

  ‘The boy’s right!’ the herald pleaded. ‘The king harnesses them for battle. He rides behind them in his chariot and lets them tear through his enemies’ ranks.’

  ‘Surely such monsters don’t acknowledge any man as their master,’ Heracles said.

  ‘Look, his chariot’s propped against that wall,’ the herald said, pointing at a canvas-draped shape in the shadows on the opposite side of the chamber. ‘Diomedes unhooks the horses’ chains from an iron ring at the back of their stall, then uses them to yoke the mares to his chariot.’

  The fourth horse yanked at its chain and neighed impatiently, making the herald flinch in terror.

  ‘But how does he unhook their chains without being eaten himself?’ Heracles asked.

  ‘He feeds them first. The only time they’re docile is after a meal. Any other time, they would just as soon eat Diomedes as any other man.’

  Heracles released his hold from around the herald’s neck and shoved him towards Xuthus.

  ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he ordered, and walked over to the opposite wall.

  Iolaus followed, carrying the herald’s torch. Seizing a fistful of the canvas, Heracles pulled it away to reveal an upended chariot with a wide, curving cab and large wheels. The long shaft pointed to the ceiling and was crossed at the top by a yoke made for four horses. Iron bridles and harnesses hung from pegs on the wall. Heracles took the shaft, turned the chariot on its wheels, and lowered it to the floor. Suddenly, a high-pitched scream rang out.

  Heracles ran to where Xuthus had just pushed the herald into the stall. Standing in the doorway, he knew it was already too late as he watched the fourth horse tear mouthfuls of flesh from his stomach and chest. The other three horses were lying down by the dismembered corpses of the previous two victims, gnawing flesh from half-eaten legs or burrowing their muzzles into the soft innards beneath their exposed ribcages. One half-rose and reached over to sniff at the herald’s outflung hand, but the fourth horse snorted and bit at its face, sending it hurriedly back to its own pile of remains. All around them – grey and indistinct in the shadows – were the jumbled bones of their previous victims.

  ‘She hadn’t eaten,’ Xuthus said, tipping his chin at the last horse. ‘And you’ll never get near those chains until they’ve all had their fill.’

  Heracles did not rebuke him, for he would have done the same himself had those been the bones of his own friends that lay scattered over the stable floor. Instead, he sent him back to the great hall to wake and bring the others. Iolaus went with him, and by the time they had returned with the remaining Pheraeans, the night-black mares were yoked in the chariot with their traces and reins fitted. They stamped and jostled against each other restlessly, while the Pheraeans rubbed their bleary eyes in cautious disbelief.

  ‘Do you think you can handle them?’ Heracles asked his nephew.

  Iolaus stepped up beside him and took the reins and a long stick from his uncle’s hands. The horses were agitated by the yoke and other fittings, but understood the touch of the stick against their hindquarters, and were soon turning to face the gates. Xuthus slipped the bar free and pushed them open. At a shout from Iolaus, the chariot sprang forward into a dark, sloping tunnel. It led up into a long building, lit only by the faint light filtering through the open doors at the far end. There was a strong smell of hay and animal dung, and the sound of horses shifting in the darkness.

  They passed through the doorway into the courtyard they had crossed when they first arrived at the palace. The eastern sky was already growing pale, and the myriad stars above were beginning to fade and disappear. Somewhere, a cockerel was crowing. Soon, the palace and the surrounding city would be astir with Bistones.

  A man with a spear was standing by the gates in the outer wall, staring in confusion at the chariot and the fifteen fully armed Pheraeans emerging from the stable doors.

  ‘Ride him down,’ Heracles ordered. ‘Now!’

  Iolaus brought the stick down across the horses’ backs and they leaped forward. Had the guard shouted out, he might have brought others to his aid. But the sudden charge of the chariot panicked him. He raised his spear to his shoulder, only to be trampled into the ground by the hooves of the four mares.

  They rode through the open gates into the street, where Iolaus reined the horses to a halt. The Pheraeans filed out behind them, pausing only to finish off the injured Bistone. Heracles looked down the slight incline at the empty streets. There were no lights in any of the houses, and no torches were burning on the tumbledown walls of the city. Beyond what remained of the battlements, the valley was still in darkness, though he could see the pale line of the road in the shadows as it led to the bridge. The faint glimmer of the river was just visible beneath its high banks.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to the men behind him. ‘Follow us to the gates. If there’s a fight, kill the guards then make for the bridge.’

  Their passage to the outer wall went unopposed. Somewhere beyond the eastern ridge of the mountain, the sun had broken free of the horizon and was imbuing the sky with light and colour; but there was still no sign of life from the crumbling hovels that they passed. The only creatures they saw were dogs, which yelped in fear at the sight of the horses and ran whining into the surrounding ruins and alleyways.

  As the gatehouse came into view, a squat man with a grey beard appeared on the walls above.

  ‘Stop where you are,’ he cried. ‘No one leaves the city without the king’s permission.’

  At the sound of his challenge, four other men came running out of a long stone building beside the gatehouse, all of them bare-chested and carrying weapons and shields. They formed a line in front of the open gateway, their faces without fear, despite being outnumbered more than four to one. The man on top of the tower took the horn hanging at his hip and raised it to his lips. Heracles snatched an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to his bow and shot him through the throat as the first strangled note left the horn. He slumped over the broken parapet and fell, his inert body turning once before thudding into the ground below.

  ‘Drive!’ Heracles ordered, snatching up his club.

  Iolaus smacked the stick over the horses’ backs, sending them dashing forward. A fifth Bistone came running out of the guard hut, bow drawn. His arrow flew past Heracles’s head, close enough for him to feel the wind of it against his ear. The next moment, Xuthus’s sword crashed through the archer’s bow and took off his arm.

  The other Bistones scattered before the charge of the chariot. One – realizing he did not have time to escape the approaching hooves – thrust his spear at the chest of one of the horses. But his aim was too hurried and the point merely grazed the animal’s shoulder. With a pitiful scream, he was ridden down and crushed beneath the heavy wheels of the chariot.

  Gripping the handrail, Heracles leaned over as they neared the gates and swung his club into the face of one of the other guards. There was a crunch of bone and a haze of blood, then the chariot was rattling noisily through the stone archway and out onto the road beyond. Glancing behind, he saw the remaining Bistones hacked to death by the Pheraeans, before they, too, ran fre
e of the city walls.

  Iolaus drove the chariot over the bridge and turned it about to wait for the others. The huge black horses stamped their hooves and shook their heads excitedly. In the growing light of dawn, they were like shadows that no radiance could penetrate, their eyes like burning coals, filled with the desire to destroy and consume. But Diomedes had trained them well, and as long as they felt the yoke on their shoulders and the stick on their backs, they were obedient.

  The Pheraeans looked on them with fear as they reached the bridge, keeping their distance as the mares neighed and whinnied, revealing their sharp, blood-rinsed teeth. Then a long horn-blast reverberated through the air, splitting the silence of the dawn and startling crowds of birds from the canopy of the nearby wood. Heracles knew the Bistones would not hesitate in their pursuit. If he led his companions back through the trees now, they might make it to the valley beyond before their pursuers caught them; maybe even to the moored rowing boats below the wall of the dam. But if the Bistones had cavalry – the palace stables were large and he had sensed the presence of many horses there – then they would ride them down as they fled. He could not take that risk.

  Stepping down from the chariot, he scanned the faces of the Pheraeans.

  ‘Abderus,’ he said, spotting the youngest among them. ‘Go with Iolaus down to the lower wood. Wait for the rest of us there.’

  ‘But… But I want to fight,’ Abderus protested. His face was unusually pale and his hands were shaking as he gripped his spear. ‘That’s why I came – to be a warrior, like my father before me.’

  ‘And you will be. But not here and not now. Besides, I need good men to protect the horses. They’re what we came for.’

  ‘But––’

  ‘Your father knew how to take orders, Abderus.’

  It was enough. Head bowed, the boy stepped up beside Iolaus, who turned the horses around and drove them off into the trees.

  ‘What about us?’ asked one of the Pheraeans. ‘We’ve got a start on those savages – we should get going before they can muster their forces.’

  ‘They’ll be on us soon enough, Iacchus, and we don’t want them overtaking us in the woods. No, we’ll make a stand on the bridge and teach them to respect the men of Pherae first.’

  His companions exchanged uncertain glances, though a few smiled at the prospect of a fight. Xuthus was among them.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘The Bistones have raided our coasts with impunity for too long. They’ve massacred more than one village, not even sparing the women and children. Even if we all die, we’ll have our revenge first.’

  There were mumblings of agreement. Several men hooked their arms through their oxhide shields and readied their weapons as they glanced back at the gates of Tirida.

  ‘We won’t die,’ Heracles said. ‘Not all of us. We will face them and defeat them, and while they’re licking their wounds, we’ll make our way back to the harbour.’

  He looked over the side of the bridge. The river was running deep and fast – too fast for men or horses to ford. Then he heard the clatter of hooves and the sounding of horns. The pursuit had begun. He almost felt a sense of relief, knowing his decision had been the right one – for if they had decided to run, the Bistone horsemen would have caught them in the woods and surrounded them, keeping them there until the rest of Diomedes’s army arrived. Now, with the narrow frontage of the bridge and their flanks protected by the river, they could make a fight of it.

  ‘Form a line,’ he commanded. ‘You three, join me.’

  The bridge was only wide enough for six men to stand abreast. Xuthus took his place at the centre and lowered the point of his spear, gripping the shaft firmly with both hands. The men on either side of him did the same, eyeing the walls of Tirida with anticipation, while the remaining six formed a line behind them. The three archers that Heracles had selected tested their bowstrings, fitted arrows and waited.

  A chorus of shouts echoed across the plain. Men were running from the gatehouse, carrying shields and armed with spears, swords and axes. Maybe three dozen had emerged before a long stream of horsemen poured out and came charging up the road. One of the Pheraean archers released his arrow, which soared up in an arc and landed harmlessly in the grass several paces away from the cavalry. Heracles laid a calming hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘They’ll have to dismount,’ he called to the men in the front rank. ‘The horses won’t charge a shield wall on a bridge.’

  A loud cheer was followed by the clatter of wheels and the sound of a whip. Diomedes’s chariot dashed out from the gateway, pulled by his team of white horses. Even at that distance, the king looked huge with his horned helmet and his bearskin cloak trailing out behind him. He held the handrail with one hand and raised his axe over his head with the other, while his driver snapped his whip across the hindquarters of the stallions. Many more Bistones emerged from the city in his wake, raising a terrifying clamour as they filled the valley with their war cries.

  Heracles drew back his bow and took aim. Releasing the string, he watched the dark shaft of his arrow gain height, then come plunging back down again. The bronze point sank into the chest of one of the king’s horses. The doomed animal flung its head aside, its eyes wide with pain and its mouth hanging open. A moment later, it fell dead in the yoke. The chariot skewed to one side, veering over the raised edge of the road and into the grass. The second horse fell, bringing the others down with it in a cloud of dust. The chariot pole snapped and the car flew over the top of the horses, throwing Diomedes and his driver forward. Both hit the ground heavily, the chariot landing on the driver and crushing his skull. Diomedes rolled into the long grass and lay still, while several of his warriors ran to his aid.

  The war cries faded away and the horsemen circled uncertainly, looking over to where their king lay. Then Diomedes staggered up from the grass, his horned helmet still on his head. A spearman stepped forward and lifted the king by the elbow, but was pushed away with an angry grunt. Picking his axe up from the grass, he raised it in the air, then pointed it at the bridge. A fresh cheer erupted from the Bistone ranks, and like a tide they surged towards the Pheraeans, the cavalry leading.

  Heracles and the other archers released their arrows. Two horsemen were torn from the backs of their mounts, to be trampled over by the riders behind. They did not stop. A second volley brought two more down into the long grass. Heracles shouldered his bow and pushed his way into the shield-wall on the bridge, sending one of the Pheraeans to the rear. Another horseman was brought down by an arrow. But the others did not dismount, as Heracles had predicted. Instead, as they neared the mouth of the bridge, their reined in their mounts and leaned back in their saddles, spears levelled.

  ‘Shields!’ Xuthus shouted.

  Heracles dropped to one knee and covered himself with his lion-skin. A dozen spears landed among the defenders on the bridge. Some clattered off shields or splashed into the river, and one sprang back from Heracles’s cloak. Another clipped the top of a man’s helmet, tearing it from his head but leaving him unharmed. But the man behind him was caught in the ribs and thrown back into the road, where he lay clutching at the wound and crying out against the pain.

  The riders leaped from their mounts and drew their swords, yelling as they charged the shield-wall.

  ‘Shoot the horses,’ Heracles shouted to the archers behind him.

  Then the first Bistone was upon him. He felt the man’s ribs collapsing as he swung his club into his chest and sent him flailing into the river. The Pheraean beside him deflected another attacker’s sword with his shield and drove the point of his spear through his stomach. The man stumbled backwards, holding the wound and staring dumbly at the blood oozing between his fingers. Others took their places, their faces twisted with hatred as they pressed forward, heedless of the danger to themselves.

  A man pushed at Heracles with his half-moon shield, the point of his sword held low at his side, ready to probe any gap. Heracles brought his club down
hard, smashing through the layers of oxhide and the wicker frame beneath, and snapping the man’s upper arm as if it was made of clay. He cried out and tumbled from the bridge.

  Heracles felt the joy of battle take hold of him. It coursed through his muscles and filled him with determination and strength. Another Bistone stepped into the hole left by the first, only to have his head smashed to a pulp. His lifeless corpse flopped sideways onto the parapet of the bridge, then slithered over and landed in the river with a splash.

  Sensing the Pheraeans were holding their own, Heracles moved forward into the gap he had created. Three Bistones now rushed at him with spears. A swipe of his club shattered the face of the first and carried on into the jaw of the second, almost tearing it from his skull. The third thrust low, the point of his spear catching in a fold of Heracles’s cloak and driving through to his ribs. Almost unconscious of the pain, Heracles tore the spear from his attacker’s grip, reversed it and sank the head into the base of his throat.

  It was enough. The horsemen lost heart and fled, leaving their dead on the bridge and in the river on either side. A few found their mounts and rode away, though many more horses had been shot by the Pheraean archers and lay in the grass.

  Now it was the turn of the foot soldiers. They ran at the bridge, screaming for revenge and eager to claim Heracles’s life for themselves. He set his feet apart and roared back at them. Swinging his club with both hands, he smashed blindly through weapons and the fingers that held them, crushing shields and breaking bones, sending half a dozen men falling back in agony, their cries of pain ringing out a warning to those that came behind. But their comrades seemed not to care. They were gripped by the frenzy of battle, desperately clawing a path over the fallen and throwing themselves into the fight. Heracles met them with another indiscriminate arc of his club, shattering weapons and limbs alike with irresistible force and sending a second rank of Bistones tumbling backwards.

  A thickset man with a huge chest matted with hair ran at him from his exposed flank, swinging a double-bladed axe. Sensing the attack, Heracles turned and knocked the weapon from the stunned warrior’s grip, before bringing his club back into the side of his skull. Stepping over the body, he crushed a second man’s chest with a single blow, then caught a third at the base of the elbow, splintering the bone in his upper arm. The man cried out and fell among the bodies of his comrades, some groaning and squirming with pain, others silent and still.