by Glyn Iliffe
Heracles leaped clear. The weight of the axe almost dragged Diomedes over, but he managed to steady himself and raised the weapon high over his head again. Heracles jumped back from the clumsy attack and the blade sank into the turf. The king gave a loud grunt as he pulled it free.
Though half-drowned, the Bistone’s strength was returning rapidly. Heracles laid a hand on his hip, searching for his club, only then realizing it must have been torn from his belt by the force of the river. His quiver was there and his bow was still over his shoulder, but they were useless at such short range.
Snatching the dagger from his belt, he threw it at Diomedes. The blade sank into his shoulder, causing him to cry out, his great voice filling the air with his anguish. Seizing the handle, he tore it from the wound and tossed it aside. Then, with a sudden burst of rage, he clutched the axe with both hands and swung it at his opponent’s head.
Heracles threw himself under the sweep of the blade and rammed his shoulder into the king’s stomach, punching the air from his lungs as he drove him backwards. Diomedes’s axe slipped from his fingers, and in desperation he slammed his elbows down onto Heracles’s back, making him cry out and stumble. The two men crashed into the long grass and rolled over each other, struggling for dominance.
Diomedes thrust his forehead into Heracles’s face, stunning him. Clambering on top, he reached for his enemy’s throat. Heracles knocked his hands aside and brought his knee up into his testicles. The Bistone groaned and dropped onto his side. Heracles followed, pinning his opponent’s shoulder with one hand as he pulled the other back into a fist. But before he could land the blow, Diomedes grabbed his arm and planted the flat of his foot in Heracles’s stomach. He kicked out and sent him flying backwards.
Heracles landed hard, jarring the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Diomedes was already staggering to his feet a few paces away.
‘Get up,’ he said, his speech tired and slurring. ‘I’ll not have men say I killed you while you were on your back.’
Heracles’s lips folded back in a snarl as he stood.
‘Isn’t that how you killed my companions? Taking them in their sleep and dragging them off to feed your horses. Those men were your guests.’
‘They were nothing but fodder! And when I’ve taken back my mares, I’ll feed them on your flesh, too.’
‘You’ll have to kill me first.’
Diomedes charged, lowering the horns on his helmet at Heracles’s chest. Heracles ran to meet the attack. A small misjudgement and the horns would tear through his flesh, piercing heart, lung or liver. But he did not misjudge. Reaching forward, he grabbed both of the horns and dug his heels in, absorbing the momentum of the attack and bringing it to a halt, just as he had stopped the bull in Minos’s palace.
Diomedes tried desperately to seize hold of his opponent. Heracles kept him at arm’s distance, then pulled one of the horns upwards and wrenched his head back. The king’s dark eyes stared at him helplessly, and perhaps for the first time in many years they were filled with fear. Heracles swung his fist hard into his face and he flew backwards, his feet lifting from the ground before he landed unconscious in the long grass.
Iolaus came running up, closely followed by the Pheraeans. Heracles was bent over, his hands on his knees as he battled the exhaustion in his body. Looking up, he saw a strange look in his nephew’s eye.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Before Iolaus could answer, Xuthus stepped up to Diomedes and gave him a kick.
‘He’s still alive,’ he announced.
‘Then we’ll take him with us.’
‘He deserves to die,’ said one of the Pheraeans, to the nods and muttered growls of the others.
‘Leave him alone,’ Heracles warned. ‘I still have a use for him.’
He knelt beside the unconscious king and bound his wrists and ankles with rope from his satchel. Then he lifted his great bulk onto his shoulders and headed towards the woods.
‘Where are the horses?’ he asked, as his nephew fell in beside him.
‘I left them in the woods, with Abderus.’
‘You left them with the boy?’
‘I wouldn’t have, but there’s something I have to tell you. Something important.’
Heracles’s anger at hearing the mares had been left in Abderus’s care subsided. As Iolaus told him about the man who had killed Abderus’s father, he realized he was talking about Copreus before Iolaus spoke his name. Strangely, it was if he had known the moment he had first set eyes upon Eurystheus’s herald, in the palace at Tiryns many months before. He understood in an instant that Copreus had given the mushrooms to his housekeeper, knowing they would be served to her master and unleash his famous rage on his own family. What man could survive murdering his children? He would take his own life, or be executed for his crimes by Creon. It was the perfect revenge for the death of his father at Heracles’s hands, and one which would leave no one suspecting Copreus’s involvement.
Except that Heracles was not dead, and that he now knew who was responsible for the deaths of his children.
‘You see why I had to come and tell you?’ Iolaus said, eyeing his uncle’s expression with concern. ‘It was Copreus all along. Perhaps you can make him confess what he did, before Eurystheus and my father. You’ll be exonerated of all guilt for the deaths of your sons.’
‘Confess?’ Heracles replied, his voice almost a whisper. ‘What’s done is done – a confession won’t change anything. But as the gods are my witnesses, I’ll see him pay for what he did to my family.’
They followed the road into the woods and saw the chariot in the gloom ahead. The four horses were still there, their black coats almost invisible under the shadow of the trees. Heracles felt no relief at the sight of them, hardly caring any more for the labour he had been tasked with. Instead, his thoughts were filled with anger and a lust for revenge.
‘Where’s Abderus?’ Iolaus asked, as if to himself. ‘I told him to watch over the… By all the gods!’
‘Iolaus, wait!’ Heracles called after him as he ran towards the chariot.
Diomedes woke at the sound of his voice and began to struggle. Heracles threw him to the ground and dragged him towards the chariot by his ankles. Iolaus had reached the horses and was staring at the roots of the oak to which he had chained them. Then he ran to one side and vomited.
‘What will you do with him?’ Xuthus asked, spitting on Diomedes and receiving a torrent of abuse in return.
‘I will show him mercy,’ Heracles answered. ‘The same mercy he showed our comrades, and countless guests before them.’
Xuthus nodded and smiled. One of the mares whinnied loudly. Diomedes raised his head at the sound and saw the chariot and the four horses yoked to it, their red eyes gleaming hungrily in the murk. He began to panic, reaching out with his hands to clutch at tufts of earth in the road, or at the gaps between the ancient flagstones.
‘You can’t do this! You can’t do this to me.’
‘I’m afraid he won’t be their first meal since our escape from the palace,’ Heracles said, as he reached the chariot and released his hold on the rope around Diomedes’s ankles.
He nodded towards the roots of the tree. They were red with gore and the grass around them was littered with bones. A severed foot – still wearing its sandal – lay on its side a little way from the oak, a shard of white bone protruding from the savaged flesh. The horses stood in passive silence over the shambles, as if innocent of what had happened, though the blood dripping from their jaws testified to their guilt.
‘Poor Abderus,’ Xuthus said, shaking his head. ‘Poor, foolish boy.’
Iolaus joined the Pheraeans as they looked on in horror, his expression beset with remorse at having left Abderus alone with the horses. Then a whimpering plea reminded Heracles of Diomedes’s presence. He turned to see that the king had not moved, too lost in terror at the thought of his fate. Striding across to him, he pulled him to his knees
and forcibly dragged him towards the chariot. He only wished the struggling figure was Copreus.
‘No, I beg you…’ Diomedes cried.
Heracles threw him down before the four horses. They stared at their master for a moment, then lowered their heads towards him.
Chapter Nineteen
THE TEMPLE OF APHRODITE
The temple of Aphrodite was gloomy. Two torches sputtered on stands either side of the goddess’s image, and there was a clay lamp on the floor by the priestess’s bed. The priestess was not there. Megara had paid her well to stay away for the rest of the evening, and for the use of her white robes. She was wearing them now, as she sat cross-legged on the straw mattress awaiting the priestess’s next visitor.
Her heart was beating fast in anticipation of his arrival. She had only seen the man once, but it had been enough. She had not forgotten what Iphicles had told her when she had tried to kill him: that another person had travelled from Tiryns to Thebes on the night of her husband’s madness. It was not much of a clue – and even Iphicles did not know the reason why the man he spoke of had gone to Thebes – but when combined with what the slave girl Aithre had told her, it was enough.
She had sent a message to Iphicles, asking her brother-in-law if he could tell her the identity of a man with a pronounced limp and a missing finger on his right hand. He had not responded. She had been tempted to send word to Iolaus, asking if he knew such a man, but something held her back. Perhaps it was the thought that her nephew might guess she had identified the man who had drugged Heracles, and would tell him. And she did not want her husband to kill him. She wanted that pleasure for herself. Had she not suffered as much as he had? Did she not feel the loss of her children more acutely than Heracles? She cared little that she was putting her life in danger; all she wanted was to take her revenge on the man who had caused her such misery.
But first, she had to find the man and know in her heart that he had done it, and why. She would not make the same mistakes she had with Iphicles. So she had come to Tiryns on the pretence of visiting the same cousin she had stayed with on her last journey there, but with the intention of finding the man with the maimed hand.
It had not been difficult. Pretending her father was interested in the identity of a man with a limp and a missing third finger on his right hand, she had asked her cousin’s husband if he knew of any such person. Copreus, herald to King Eurystheus, he had told her, without hesitation.
She looked at the bowl of wine on the table beside her, which she had mixed herself. The thought that Copreus would shortly be arriving at the temple left her dry throated, but her thirst could wait. She looked around the walls at the dingy murals of men and women copulating, and then at the crude effigy of Aphrodite, with the grubby hand-marks on her oversized breasts and the paint peeling from her red nipples. Did the priestess not earn enough from her prostitution to have the walls cleaned and the statue repainted, she wondered? The whole place had a squalid air about it that made her want to get out as quickly as possible. But first, she had to wait for Copreus’s regular visit.
The morning after she had discovered his identity, she travelled to the city with her cousin and then slipped away from her in the crowded streets. Finding her way to the citadel, she had wasted the morning asking slaves and a few craftsmen where she might find the king’s herald. The women had dismissed her with curt and unhelpful answers, and though the men – in deference to her looks – were more responsive, they could do little more than point to the walls of the acropolis and shrug. But one – a simple-minded old beggar she had found sweeping the steps of the temple of Poseidon for a crust of bread – had smiled and winked, and pointed at another temple farther up the main street.
‘There’s where you’ll find him,’ he said, his rancid breath wafting over her. ‘Every other evening, as sure as sunset follows sunrise. Likes to worship at Aphrodite’s temple, he does.’
The beggar thrust his palm towards her, and she had paid him with three of the small, smoked fish she had purchased in the lower city earlier, while she had still been with her cousin. The information had been worth far more than a handful of fish, though.
The thick curtain over the open doorway was pulled aside, letting in a momentary patch of vivid, late-afternoon sunlight. A figure entered, dressed in a black cloak with a fur collar, and holding a bleating lamb under one arm. He let the curtain fall back behind him, enclosing the temple once more in shadow.
Megara sat up and took a deep breath. She lifted her hands from her lap and looked at them. They were shaking.
‘Calyce,’ he said. ‘I’ve a year-old lamb for your goddess. Payment for the week, as per our agreement.’
‘You certainly know how to woo a woman, Copreus,’ Megara replied. ‘It is Copreus, isn’t it?’
The man remained by the entrance, and for a moment the only sounds were the hissing of the torches and the shifting of the lamb in his grip.
‘Where’s the priestess?’ he asked, eventually.
‘Calyce remembered she had other business. I’ve offered to attend to the goddess while she’s gone.’
‘And do your duties include attending to her worshippers?’ Copreus asked, his interest rekindled.
‘Come into the light, so I can see you.’
He tied the lamb to the base of a pillar and limped across the floor to stand before the effigy of Aphrodite. By the flickering glare of the torches, Megara could see his grim features and grizzled hair. He placed his hands behind his back – perhaps self-conscious about his missing finger – pulling the cloak back enough to reveal the pommel of a sword.
‘Not very handsome, am I?’ he said. ‘Not the sort of thing a young maid like yourself is used to, I expect. But I know how to satisfy a woman, and what’s more, I pay well. What’s your name, girl?’
‘Megara.’
He frowned briefly, then nodded to a stool at the end of the fur-covered mattress.
‘I’ll take a seat, if I may?’
‘Of course. It must be uncomfortable to stand for long with a limp like that.’
‘It’s worse on damp days, but I’m still capable of most things, as Calyce can testify. But tell me, Megara, are you an apprentice here? Every servant of Aphrodite I ever knew wore much more…’ He traced a few vague lines around his face as he sat. ‘You know – paints and powders. And more jewellery, too – rings in their ears and noses, necklaces, bracelets––’
He reached forward and took her hand, running his fingers up to the single, bronze bracelet that adorned her wrist. It was etched with a simple pattern of parallel and zigzagging lines, and the finials were of a crouching lion on one side and a seated deer on the other. Heracles had given it to her on the day of their marriage, and despite all that had passed between them since she had not had the heart to remove it.
Copreus fiddled with it as if it was an amusing toy, and she saw then the missing third finger on his right hand. She shuddered at his touch, and fought the impulse to snatch her arm away.
‘I can bring you more bracelets, if you wish,’ he said. ‘And in return, you can––’
She slipped her hand from his.
‘I’m not a priestess of Aphrodite, or an apprentice.’
‘Then what are you doing here? Who are you?’
‘You know who I am. I saw the recognition in your eyes when I told you my name.’
He gave a dismissive smile.
‘There are many Megaras in Greece.’
‘Then I’ll help you to remember. You came to my house outside of Thebes and sold some mushrooms to my housekeeper. She had them made into a soup for my husband, just as you’d told her to, and he went temporarily insane. Just long enough to murder his sons. My sons!’
He sat up and shook his head, a look of dumb ignorance on his face. For a moment, she thought he would plead ignorance, leaving her uncertain about whether he really was the man Aithre had spoken of. Then he seemed to rethink his denial, perhaps realizing that she had no power ov
er him anyway. He closed his eyes and sighed.
‘How did you know?’
She felt a sudden stab of hatred. If she had brought a dagger, she would not have hesitated to plunge it into his chest – not like she had with Iphicles. But she was unarmed. The weapon she had chosen to bring was more subtle, and she needed to keep her head to use it.
‘There were a few mushrooms left in the kitchen. Perhaps the housekeeper had decided to keep a few for herself, I don’t know.’
‘But your housekeeper didn’t tell you about me,’ Copreus said. ‘I killed her to make sure she couldn’t identify me.’
‘Others saw you.’
‘Ah, of course – the child picking dung. She seemed no more than a simpleton, so I let her live. Which is why, Megara, you must never allow pity to stand in the way of revenge.’
‘Revenge?’ Megara asked.
‘Then you don’t know everything. But how could you? My father was King Erginus. I was never acknowledged publicly, of course – just another brat, born to just another servant girl. But he must have felt something for my mother, maybe even me. He used to visit us as I grew up, and when I reached manhood he made sure I was chosen for the royal guard. This from a king, when most royals ignore their unwanted bastards. So when Heracles killed my father, I swore to avenge him.’
‘By causing the deaths of my children? By nearly causing my death, too? Such a noble revenge.’
She picked up the two wooden cups beside the mixing bowl, filling one and passing it to Copreus. Her own she dipped in the wine and discreetly let it drain out again.
‘I regret it had to be that way,’ Copreus said. ‘I would have preferred to run him through with my sword and look him in the eye as he died, but you know his reputation as a fighter. Dying by his cruel hand is hardly an effective revenge. So we decided he should die by subtler methods – suicide, hopefully, or execution. Unfortunately, things didn’t turn out quite as we had hoped.’
