WRATH OF THE GODS

by Glyn Iliffe

  Bows sang behind Heracles, and three more Bistones fell with arrows protruding from their chests. The rest of the Pheraeans gave a shout and charged across the bridge, driving their spears into the Bistones who had gathered around Heracles. Shouts rang out and several men fell beneath the onslaught. Many fought back, and Heracles saw one of his companions fall to the thrust of a sword. The bowstrings twanged again, and more men dropped. Driven by a lust for more blood, Heracles threw himself back into the fray. A number of Bistones turned and ran. Of those that remained, one gave a yell and raised his axe, only for Heracles’s club to crush the side of his skull, knocking an eye from its socket. A spearman lunged low from Heracles’s left, driving the point of his weapon into the side of his thigh. The pain was intense, but his anger overcame it. The man was too slow withdrawing his weapon and Heracles’s club smashed through his shoulder, leaving his arm hanging by a flap of skin. Blood gushed from the wound and the Bistone collapsed. The rest turned and ran.

  Chapter Eighteen

  FLIGHT TO THE HARBOUR

  Iolaus drove the chariot through the wood to the meadows beyond. The shadow of the mountain covered the valley to the far edge of the lake. The horses were growing more difficult, perhaps sensing they were being taken against their master’s will. Only the regular application of the long stick in his hand kept them galloping forward.

  ‘But I have to fight,’ Abderus complained. ‘I have to become a warrior.’

  ‘Why the hurry? Ask Xuthus or one of the others to take you as their squire. They’ll teach you everything you need to know, in time.’

  ‘There’s no teacher like experience. I know how to handle a weapon, I just need to prove myself in battle. Listen, Iolaus – take me back to the bridge. Or leave me here, if you must, and I’ll run back.’

  Iolaus shook his head.

  ‘I have my orders. Besides, you were trembling like a ghost back there. Perhaps the gods didn’t make you to be a fighter.’

  ‘Whether they did or not, that’s what I’m going to be.’

  ‘Because your father was before you?’ Iolaus asked. ‘My father’s a glorified scribe; I never want to be like him.’

  ‘But if he was hacked to death without mercy, you’d want to avenge him, wouldn’t you?’

  Iolaus thought of Iphicles – the cold, emotionless father who had never shown him any love – and felt nothing.

  ‘You must have loved him dearly,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t remember much about him,’ Abderus replied. ‘Except his smile and the feel of his beard when he hugged me. And that he was tall. But then, isn’t everyone when you’re five?’ He grinned at the memory, but it quickly faded again. ‘My mother told me everything about him, though. She loved him with all her heart. And for my father’s sake and hers, I will kill the man who murdered him.’

  His knuckles turned white as he gripped the handrail. They had passed the dam and were riding up the slope to the eaves of the lower wood.

  ‘But he died in the battle for Thebes, didn’t he?’ Iolaus asked. ‘Hundreds of men, stabbing and shouting – how can you possibly know who killed him?’

  ‘My mother was told by one of the men who saw it. The battle was almost over, Erginus was dead and his men were fleeing the field. My father and a few other Pheraeans had pursued some of them into a gully, where they called on them to surrender. Their leader, a bastard son of King Erginus, refused and ordered his men to fight their way out. It was he who killed my father, before taking his horse and escaping. His name is burned into my consciousness, and will stay there until I strike him down with my own hand: Copreus.’

  ‘Copreus?’ Iolaus asked, taking a new interest in Abderus’s tale. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I should know, shouldn’t I?’

  The road took them under the shade of the wood and Iolaus reined the horses to a halt beneath an old oak. He jumped down and took the iron reins, carefully securing the mares to the tree. They were baring their teeth and whinnying loudly, their appetites seemingly restored.

  ‘How will you find this man?’ he asked Abderus. ‘Do you even know what he looks like?’

  ‘I know my father stabbed him in the leg when they fought. And my mother learned something, too: that after Erginus’s death, there was a struggle between his sons for the throne. Copreus feared assassination and fled south, becoming herald to King Eurystheus.’

  Iolaus felt his blood run cold. There could be no doubt now it was the same man. But if Copreus was a bastard of Erginus, then he had every reason to want to destroy Heracles. And the mushrooms that had induced Heracles’s madness were only found in his homeland of Orchomenus! By a strange chance – or the will of the gods – Iolaus had discovered the motive and identity of the man who had destroyed his uncle’s life.

  ‘Abderus,’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to tell Heracles. I need you to stay here and watch over the horses. Whatever you do, stay in the chariot and don’t go near them.’

  ‘But…’ Abderus began. Then he swallowed and gave an uncertain nod. ‘Alright, I’ll keep them safe. Just don’t be long.’

  One of the mares looked over her shoulder at the young Pheraean, her red eyes gleaming dully in the first light of dawn. Iolaus took a last look at Abderus, then turned and ran back up the road.

  * * *

  ‘Twenty dead at least, and the same number wounded,’ Xuthus exulted as he ran through the woods beside Heracles, the other Pheraeans following at their heels. ‘They’ll not be so quick to come after us now, and with most of their horses shot they’ll be slower, too.’

  ‘They’ll come,’ Heracles replied. ‘Diomedes will be stirring up their anger now, pointing to their dead comrades and calling on their pride. And they’re not cowards. I saw that in their eyes. If they’d been more cautious, we wouldn’t have slain so many.’

  The sound of scores of voices shouting in unison rang through the trees. Heracles glanced over his shoulder, guessing that Diomedes had already rallied his horde and that they were crossing the bridge at that very moment. Their furious lust for revenge would lend them speed, and it would not be long before the fastest caught up with the Pheraeans.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ he called to his companions. ‘Get out of the woods and down to the dam. There are two boats on the bank.’

  They left the treeline and the valley fell away below them, with the sea gleaming temptingly in the distance. The sun was nudging above the mountains, bathing the western half of the pastureland in pink light and casting long shadows from the many trees. The river left the woods to their right and they followed its course towards the lake, gaining momentum from the slope. Then they heard the cries of the first Bistones as they reached the eaves of the wood behind them, jubilant that their prey had not yet outreached their clutches.

  Heracles had never run from an enemy, and had to force himself to keep to his plan. To stop and fight now would be suicidal against such a host, which would quickly overlap their flanks and force them into a defensive circle from which there could be no escape. Allowing himself a fleeting backwards glance, he saw five horsemen – the last of the Bistone cavalry – bearing down on the retreating Pheraeans. Behind them was a line of the fastest foot soldiers, with Diomedes himself in the lead, his huge strides covering the ground rapidly. Farther back – still emerging from the woods – was the remainder of the king’s army, their enraged war cries echoing from the high mountain ridges.

  Heracles stopped and notched an arrow. Adjusting his aim to account for the speed of the nearest horseman, he released the bowstring. An instant later, the man crashed to the ground. A second rider shared the same fate, Heracles’s arrow hitting him in the base of the neck so that he jerked backwards and rolled off the hindquarters of his mount. The others kicked their heels back hard into their horses’ flanks, urging them forward at breakneck speed.

  Two veered off in pursuit of the Pheraeans, while the third rode towards Heracles, his spear poised over his shoulder. Heracles slipped an arrow
from his quiver, notched it to his string and pulled it back to his cheek. The rider was close now – close enough for Heracles to count the four plaits in his beard and see the faded tattoo of a boar through his chest hair. He felt a mixture of exhilaration and fear coursing through his body, driven by the knowledge that he had a single, rapidly diminishing chance to shoot the rider before he plunged his spear through his chest; a heartbeat of time in which the slightest hesitation or error in his aim would leave him dead. The horseman knew it, too, and rode on.

  The string sang loudly in Heracles’s ear. The horse’s eyes were wide and its head low as it galloped towards Heracles, its hooves beating the ground like thunder. Its rider pulled his spear back a fraction, then, with a twist of his elbow and wrist, brought it forward again. His fingers prepared to release their grip on the shaft and hurl it at his target, but the arrow was quicker. The point entered the man’s open mouth and passed through the back of his head. At last, the fingers loosened their hold, but there was no strength left in them. The arm flew back, sending the spear spiralling into the long grass. The rider fell, hitting the ground in a tumble of limbs before rolling to a stop at Heracles’s feet. His horse rode past and did not stop.

  Cries to Heracles’s left marked the attack of the remaining Bistone horsemen. One drove his weapon between the shoulder blades of a fleeing Pheraean, only for an archer to shoot him in the chest and send him tumbling from his saddle. The second threw his spear at Xuthus, but missed and was cut down as he rode past his target.

  Heracles looked up the slope. Diomedes and the dozen warriors around him were closing quickly, with the Bistone horde not far behind. Glancing back, he could see the waterfall and the bend in the riverbank that hid the two boats, only a bowshot away. Then, to his dismay, he saw Iolaus running up the road towards him.

  ‘Heracles!’ Diomedes boomed. ‘Will you shame your father’s blood by running? Stand and fight like a man.’

  The king was no fool. He knew that the one weakness of men like Heracles was pride. What true warrior could turn his back on an accusation of cowardice? What man would run when his honour was questioned? Such a thing was worse than death. Yet to accept the challenge was to accept death – not only for himself, but for Xuthus and his companions, and for Iolaus. And for all Diomedes thought he knew about Heracles’s character, he did not know that he had become used to humiliation. Why was he even there, if not on the orders of another? What was he, if not a slave? Who was he, if not a child murderer?

  No, he would not play Diomedes’s game.

  ‘Run!’ he shouted to the Pheraeans. ‘Run to the waterfall. Find the boats.’

  They turned and sprinted as fast as their armour and weapons would allow. Seeing someone stumble ahead of him – the man who had been wounded in the battle on the bridge – Heracles stooped beside him, lifted him onto his shoulders and ran. Even Iolaus had heard his uncle’s booming order and was running towards the bend in the river.

  Despite his burden, Heracles’s long, powerful legs took him past his companions. He reached the top of the riverbank, saw that the two boats were still there, and scrambled down the slope. The shouts of the pursuing Bistones were consumed by the thunder of the waterfall, but he knew they were close behind. Clambering into the nearest boat, he set the wounded man down on one of the benches and reached for the raised prow. The rope that he had tied to it the day before was still attached. He slipped the knot and drew it in quickly, arm over arm, until it stood proud of the surface of the river, stretched tight between his fist and the timbers of the dam. Then he leaped across to the second boat and did the same. Winding the ropes together, he wrapped them around his wrist and jumped into the water.

  The Pheraeans appeared at the top of the bank, sliding down the slope in a spray of dirt and stones. Some fell into the boats, gasping for breath, while others threw their weight behind the little vessels and pushed them into the water.

  ‘Where are Iolaus and Xuthus?’ Heracles demanded, glancing from face to face as he stood up to his waist in the river, feeling the current fast and hard against his midriff. ‘Where are they ?’

  At that moment, both men came flying out from the top of the high bank, landing with a splash at the water’s edge and throwing themselves into the boats.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Xuthus panted. ‘We need to go now .’

  The four men who had been preventing the boats from being pulled away by the current shoved them further out into the water and climbed in.

  ‘Heracles!’ Iolaus shouted. ‘Hurry up!’

  Ignoring his nephew’s pleas, Heracles drew the ropes taut. Planting one foot against a boulder in the riverbed, he began to pull. The ropes hummed and water dripped from the fibres as they were wrung dry. His muscles straining, he heaved with all his great strength. The timbers propping up the wall of the dam began to creak.

  ‘Uncle!’ Iolaus shouted again, his voice growing more distant as the boats drifted farther away.

  Heracles gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, the tension in his body suddenly exploding out of him with a huge shout. He felt a movement in the rope, the slightest hint of give. Placing both feet against the boulder and pushing back with his legs, he pulled again. One of the timbers slid and fell. The other held fast.

  Several Bistones appeared at the top of the bank. They gave a triumphant cry and rushed down the slope. They would be on him in moments, hacking at his flesh with axe and sword and turning the river red with his blood. Time had run out.

  Then a voice boomed out, terrifying in its power.

  ‘He’s mine !’

  It was Diomedes. The first Bistones to reach the water stopped and waited grudgingly beside the bank.

  ‘Fools,’ Heracles said through gritted teeth, and gave a final pull on the ropes.

  It was enough. The second timber sprang free and dropped with a splash into the water. The tension in the rope gone, Heracles fell back into the river. His hearing was suddenly dulled by the rushing water, and his vision filled with hundreds of bubbles as the breath exploded from his mouth and nostrils. Taken by the current, he pushed himself up and snatched a mouthful of air before sinking back beneath the surface again. A long, dark shape appeared above him. Reaching up, he took hold of the timber and pulled his head and shoulders free of the water.

  It took a moment to drive the confusion from his senses. Breathing quickly and blinking against the liquid in his eyes, he glanced around himself. He could see the dark eaves of the wood in the distance ahead of him, but could see no sign of the boats. Twisting round, he looked at the dam. The heavy blocks of stone were quivering, and the next instant they were gone, consumed by an angry wall of water.

  Heracles heaved himself up onto the timber and locked his arms around its girth, holding on as tightly as he could. He heard the rush of the flood a moment before it hit him, heaving the timber up as the swell passed beneath it, then dropping it down again. He was pulled along rapidly, his senses drowning in water and leaving him confused and disorientated. He lost sight of the banks on either side, and was only conscious of large rocks in the river as he swept past them, often less than an arm’s length away.

  On and on he went, his flesh numbed by the cold water and his muscles tiring as he struggled to keep his grip on the beam. Despite the deafening roar of the flood, he thought he could hear hundreds of voices crying out in terror. Then the end of the timber hit something hard that sent a violent jolt through its length, almost throwing him off. The other end swung round, crashing into another barrier and bringing it to a sharp halt.

  Heracles clung on while the deluge poured over him, the force of it threatening to wash him away. Slowly, he pulled himself forward, hand by hand, until he saw the massive boulder that had brought his journey to its sudden end. It stood proud of the surface, and pulling himself up onto it, he was able to wipe the water from his eyes and gaze around himself.

  The initial swell of the flood had passed. Where he was – only a bowshot from the ea
ves of the lower wood – the river had stayed within its banks. Like the wood, the meadows here were on a ridge of higher land that had protected it from the worst of the torrent. The rest of the valley, however, was being swamped by the emptying of the lake. From the remains of the dam to the foot of the eastern mountains, the water was sweeping all before it.

  The sun had risen above the arm of the mountain and now shone down on the scene of devastation. There was no sign of the Bistone army, though there were many black shapes in the water, some motionless, others struggling feebly against the irresistible tide of the flood. Two bodies had washed up against the nearby ridge. Heracles crawled to the edge of the boulder and jumped onto the grassy bank. Cold, drenched and weary, he walked to where one of the corpses lay face down in the filthy water and turned it over. He recognized the pale face that stared up at him as belonging to the boy who had thrown a stone at Abderus. Shaking his head, he closed the dead eyes and pushed the body back out into the water.

  A voice called his name. Turning, he saw movement among the trees close to the riverbank. Several figures emerged from the shadows, led by Iolaus and Xuthus. But as he walked towards them, they began to point and shout, their tone suddenly urgent. Through the cacophony of voices, a single word came to him clearly. Diomedes.

  Hearing a low grunt behind him, he turned to see that the second body had risen from the water’s edge and was lumbering towards him. His horned helmet was still on his head, and hanging from one hand was his double-edged axe. Taking it in both hands, Diomedes lifted it over his shoulder and staggered forward, swinging the heavy weapon in a wide arc towards the man who had wiped out his army.