by Glyn Iliffe
‘We decided? We had hoped?’ she said, lifting the empty vessel to her lips. ‘What do you mean? Who else was involved?’
‘What does it matter? You know that I supplied the mushrooms that led to your husband’s madness, and you know why I did it. Perhaps the question should be – what do you intend to do about it?’
‘What can I do about it?’ she said, glancing at the cup in his maimed hand and willing him to take a swallow. ‘Who would believe me? I have no evidence. And Heracles and I have not spoken since that night – I can hardly tell him you were responsible for destroying our family.’
‘Even if you did, that would presume I’m going to let you leave this temple alive,’ Copreus replied, raising the cup to his mouth. It stopped halfway and his eyes narrowed. ‘But why would you risk coming here alone? To hear me confess it with my own lips? To be certain you had the right man before you… Before you what ?’
Megara felt her heart pounding now. A single sip was all it needed, or so the witch had told her – the woman’s knowledge extended to more than just mushrooms. Copreus slipped a hand to the pommel of his sword and scanned the temple, perhaps expecting to see the glint of an assassin’s knife in the shadows. She raised the empty cup to her lips again, hoping to encourage him. It was a mistake.
He reached forward, resting his fingers on the lip of her cup and pulling it towards him.
‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Very clever. And mine contains a subtle poison, no doubt. And sometime later, Calyce would return to find my dead body without a mark on it – struck down by the gods, or some other nonsense, while you slip off back to Thebes, not a hint of suspicion against your name. How like a woman! But do you see what you’ve done?’ he added, reaching out and grabbing her hair. ‘You’ve given me the perfect weapon to get rid of you. No blood or mess, no bruises around the neck, just your beautiful, cold body lying on the floor of the temple. And all that precious knowledge you’ve gathered about my misdeeds will have died with you.’
He pulled her hair back hard, making her gasp with pain. Through the blur of her sudden tears, she saw him move his cup towards her lips. Supporting herself on one arm, she tried to knock it out of his hand. He responded by yanking harder on her hair, so that she was forced to grab his other wrist in an attempt to stop the pain.
‘Don’t resist, Megara,’ he hissed. ‘Just a mouthful and your spirit will be on its journey to Hades. There your grief and sadness will be forgotten forever.’
‘Kill me and you kill yourself,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘My maids know everything. If I don’t return to Thebes, they have instructions to find Heracles and tell him who really killed his children.’
It was a lie, but it was all she could think of. For a moment, Copreus’s grip on her hair weakened as he considered the thought of facing a vengeful Heracles.
‘But if I let you go, you’ll tell him anyway,’ he said. ‘I expect the only reason you haven’t already was so you could kill me yourself. And look at what a mess you’ve made of that.’
He jerked her head back, forcing her mouth open in a strangled cry. She felt the cup against her chin. Any moment now, the poisoned wine would spill down into her throat.
And then he pulled it away again. He released his grip on her hair and she fell back onto the mattress.
‘No, I won’t kill you,’ he said. ‘You’re more useful to me alive than dead.’
Chapter Twenty
PRISONER OF THE AMAZONS
Heracles stared up at the acropolis. It was built on an outcrop of rock, and here at the back of the city – where there were no slums or outer defences – its walls stood atop a high cliff, much too steep and rugged for any attacking army to scale. But for a determined man, under the cover of darkness, there was a chance.
He studied the almost vertical face of the cliff, its features grey and indistinct in the light of the waning moon. Reaching up, he found two handholds and began to climb, his feet scrambling for purchase against the side of the rock. As he groped his way slowly upwards, hand by hand and foot by foot, his thoughts returned to the events of the past few days.
It had been quick work to deal with the few remaining Bistones left to guard the ships, though the task of loading their cargo had been time-consuming. The chariot was disassembled and stored in the hold, while the horses were forced to lie on the deck, where they were secured by ropes and had their heads covered with sacks. A small flock of goats was also herded aboard and kept below deck, to be brought up one a day as food for the carnivorous mares.
After several days, they reached Tiryns and unloaded the horses. They said their farewells to Xuthus and the others – who were amply rewarded for their help with the prize of the galley – then yoked the mares to the chariot. Hunger had made the horses aggressive again, but Heracles had learned how to impose his will on them, and they showed their new master a grudging respect.
Again, Eurystheus had been informed of their arrival and orders had been given to clear the streets. But as they drove the chariot through the outer city – the route lined by spearmen – hundreds defied the decree and crept onto the roofs of their hovels, or out into the streets and alleys behind the ranks of soldiers. There were too many to drive back into their homes, and so the guards and their officers had to endure the cheers of the crowd in frowning silence.
There was less of a welcome inside the walls of the city, where the grip of the royal guard was felt more tightly. But there were many faces at the windows and doorways, and a few brave voices called out Son of Zeus! Son of Zeus! before being quickly and brutally silenced again. The rest simply stared in awe and terror at the black beasts pulling the chariot, with their blood-red eyes and rows of sharp teeth.
Eurystheus was waiting for them on the ramparts of the acropolis, his usual entourage of Iphicles, Tydeus, Charis and Copreus at his shoulders. Heracles stared tight-lipped at the latter, his fingers working unconsciously at his side as he pondered the revenge that would shortly be his.
‘So, you have succeeded again, Cousin,’ Eurystheus said. ‘These are the man-eating horses of Diomedes – or at least you would have us believe they are. There can only be one proof. Guards!’
At a signal from Tydeus, two soldiers left the guardhouse beside the gate to the lower city, carrying a struggling figure between them. Heracles recognized him from the slums, a boy whose mother’s home he had once repaired. Guessing why he had been brought, Heracles stepped between the soldiers and the horses.
‘Stop this!’ he shouted. ‘He’s just a child––’
‘He’s a thief,’ said Eurystheus. ‘He was caught stealing bread, and for that he will be punished. Stand aside!’
Several archers drew their bows and a dozen arrows were aimed at Heracles’s chest. The horses snorted impatiently behind him and stamped their hooves, making their iron traces jangle. Heracles watched helplessly as the escort walked around him, the boy struggling in their grip. They released their hold on him and pushed him hard in the back, propelling him towards the horses. The first sank its teeth into his shoulder, holding him fast and dragging him back towards her sisters. His screams echoed back from the high walls as they devoured him with hideous joy, until Heracles could watch no longer. He turned his face away, listening to the sounds of tearing flesh and snapping bone.
The demonstration convinced Eurystheus to keep the horses for himself, but the gods had already decreed he should not become another Diomedes. That very afternoon, as they were led away to a separate paddock safely outside the city walls, the mares ate the two grooms and escaped into the countryside. Heracles only hoped they would quickly fall prey to wild animals, their lives destroyed as brutally as they had destroyed so many others.
He pulled himself onto a narrow shelf at the foot of the fortifications and listened. Footsteps approached along the ramparts – just one guard, walking slowly. He paused directly over where Heracles was standing, his fingers just visible as he clutched the edge of the wall and looked out into the
darkness. Then he continued on his way, his footsteps receding into silence.
Pulling a coil of rope from his shoulder, Heracles hurriedly paid out a few lengths. The end had been knotted around a piece of wood, which itself was wrapped in rags. Swinging this in a wide circle, he launched it up and over the parapet. The noise of the wood was softened to a dull thud by the cloth. He pulled on the rope and felt the block of wood catch between the crenellations. After a quick tug to check it was secure, he took the rope in both hands and began to heave himself up the wall. Peering over the edge, he saw no sign of guards on the narrow walkway. He climbed over and ran into the shadows cast by the nearby walls of the palace.
Moments later, the sound of footsteps returned. They were measured at first, then broke into a run. A soldier appeared from around a corner of the palace walls and crouched beside the length of wood and attached rope that lay by the parapet. He stood quickly and glanced over the edge. A moment later, Heracles folded his hand over the soldier’s mouth and pulled him back against his chest. The point of his dagger pressed against the man’s ribs.
‘Take me to Copreus,’ he whispered.
The soldier nodded, his eyes wide with fear as they looked at Heracles. With small jerks of his head, left and right, he took him to a side door that led inside the palace. The passage within was short and illuminated by a single torch. At the end was a flight of steps, leading up to another dimly lit passage. A few turns took them to a square room. There was a door opposite, a balcony to the right that looked down onto a modest garden, and a double door to the left. A male slave was asleep on a bench beside the door.
The soldier was trying to speak. Carefully, Heracles peeled his hand away.
‘Will you kill me?’ he asked.
‘Tell me where Copreus is and you’ll live.’
‘Behind there,’ the soldier said, nodding towards the double doors.
Heracles hit him once and he fell to the floor with a thud. The slave stirred on his bench, but did not wake. Slowly, Heracles slid the bolt of the door and entered.
The room beyond was lit by an oil lamp on a small table. There were no windows, and against one wall was a small bed covered with furs. A few weapons hung from the plain white walls, but other than a large fleece in the centre of the floor, the rest of the room was bare.
A man sat at the table, studying a tablet by the light of the lamp. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up.
‘I said I wasn’t to be…’ he began, squinting at the shadowy figure who had just entered. ‘Who in Ares’s name are you?’
But he knew the answer as soon as the question left his lips. He stood quickly, knocking his chair to the floor and almost tripping over it as he limped heavily towards the wall. The fingers of his maimed hand closed over the handle of a sword, even managing to lift it from its pegs and turn, before Heracles’s club knocked it flying from his grip.
Copreus’s hand slipped to the dagger in his belt, but Heracles saw the move and ripped the weapon from his fingers as he drew it. Dropping his club and seizing him by the chest, he pushed him back against the wall, knocking off a shield that fell to the floor with a clatter. He held the edge of the dagger across the herald’s bearded throat, and only the greatest exertion of will prevented him from slicing the blade through his windpipe.
‘You caused me to murder my own children,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘You destroyed my family and made me a slave to my most hated enemy.’
‘Listen to me, Heracles,’ Copreus choked.
‘I intend to. I’m going to listen to you beg for your life, then I’m going to listen to your squeals of pain as I cut you up, piece by piece.’
Taking a fistful of his tunic, he hurled Copreus across the room. He crashed into a wall and fell in a heap on the floor, groaning as he tried to push himself up. Heracles was on him in an instant, hauling him to his feet and throwing him against the opposite wall. He landed with a thud and rolled onto his back, blood pouring from his nose and a gash on his forehead. Somehow, he managed to push himself upright. Seeing the sword that lay close by, he stretched out a hand towards it.
Heracles kicked the blade away and took him by the throat, his other hand pressing the point of the knife against his ribs. He had barely slept on the voyage to Tiryns, his mind alive with thoughts of how he would inflict the most painful and drawn out revenge upon the bastard son of Erginus. His seething fury had fed thoughts of the most dreadful tortures, somehow believing that the more pain he extracted from Copreus, the greater the relief he would feel about what had been done to himself and his family; as if the depth of his peace depended on the extent of his enemy’s suffering.
But as he looked at the bloodied figure before him, he realized he had been wrong. He did not want to be in his living presence a moment longer than was necessary. He knew, too, that he would receive no peace from killing Copreus. He would kill him, and he would kill him quickly, but the brief satisfaction of seeing the light leave his eyes would not bring his children back from the dead, or restore his wife’s love for him, or fill the hole torn in his heart by the destruction of his family.
His eyes filled suddenly with tears.
‘Damn you, Copreus,’ he said, placing the point of the dagger against the herald’s chest.
‘I have Megara.’
It was as if the knife had been suddenly turned and held against his own heart.
‘I have Megara,’ Copreus repeated, taking Heracles’s wrist and easing the blade aside. ‘She’s somewhere far away, somewhere you’ll never find her. And as long as I’m alive, she’ll be safe there. But the moment word reaches her captors that I’m dead, then she will be the next to die.’
‘I don’t have to kill you, Copreus. Not yet. All I need do is cut off the less essential parts of your body until you tell me where she is: an ear, some fingers, maybe your nose. Then, after I’ve brought her to safety, there’ll be nothing to stop me coming back here and finishing the job.’
‘I promise you, whatever you do to me will be done to her. Do you think she will thank you if her nose is docked?’
Heracles’s lips curled back in a sneer and his knuckles whitened around the handle of the knife.
‘You snake,’ he snarled. ‘How do I know you’re not lying? How do I know she isn’t safely at home in Thebes?’
‘Go look on the table, next to the lamp.’
Heracles stared at him, trying to read his eyes for a sign that he was bluffing. But Copreus’s gaze was unwavering. Was his revenge about to be stolen from him? Was he to be robbed of even that small satisfaction? For a brief, reckless moment, he considered plunging the dagger into the herald’s chest anyway, regardless of the consequences. Then, with a cry of rage, he threw it across the room.
He stood and crossed to the table. Beyond the door, he could hear the tramp of approaching feet and the clank of armour. The table was bare except for the lamp, the clay tablet and a half-full goblet of wine. And then he saw it. A small, familiar circle of bronze. The bracelet he had given Megara on the day of their wedding. He picked it up, his heart sinking with the realization that the woman he still loved really was being held prisoner at Copreus’s command.
‘Why?’
‘She’s my only guarantee of safety. The moment she accused me of being behind your madness, I knew it would just be a matter of time before you learned the truth and came for revenge. But if you want her to live––’
The doors burst open and half a dozen guards rushed in.
‘Are you safe, my lord?’
‘Perfectly,’ Copreus said, struggling to his feet. ‘Now, please escort my guest from the palace and down to his own quarters in the outer city.’
Heracles retrieved his club from the floor and the guards edged backwards, levelling their spears at him.
‘I will find her and free her, Copreus,’ he said. ‘And when I do, you are going to die.’
He slipped Megara’s bracelet into his satchel and walked from the room, the guar
ds making way before him. The soldier he had knocked unconscious was sitting on the bench beside the door, while the slave held a damp cloth over his cheek.
‘Follow me please, my lord,’ said one of the guards.
They led him down through the quiet palace, past the temple of Hera and to the gates that led to the outer part of the citadel. As he passed beneath the walls, a familiar voice called to him from behind.
‘Heracles, wait!’
Iphicles walked briskly down the steps towards him. Despite the late hour, he was dressed in his robes of office. Dismissing the escort, he fell in beside his brother.
‘That was foolish,’ he said. ‘Copreus could have had you killed.’
‘He could have tried.’
‘As arrogant as ever, I see,’ Iphicles said, though without his usual acerbic tone. ‘I… I’m aware of what he did to you.’
Heracles stopped and looked at his brother.
‘How long have you known?’
‘Megara accused me of the crime a while ago. She told me someone had drugged you to induce your madness. I began to have my suspicions then, but I couldn’t be sure that her suspicions were correct. Besides––’
‘Besides what ? Besides the fact you hate me because I took our mother’s love from you; and because I’m a son of Zeus, while you’re simply the son of a mortal. Or because I stole Iolaus from you? Why would you tell me Copreus murdered my family?’
‘You’re beginning to sound like me. But I’ve had time to reflect on my feelings towards you, and to observe the person you’ve become, compared to the person you were. The truth is you were our mother’s favourite; you were conceited about your Olympian father; and Iolaus did choose you over me. But it’s not your fault that Mother rejected me for you, Heracles. It’s hers. She always was drawn to the best, forsaking my father for yours; and preferring her strong, handsome son to the weak, intellectual one. And if you were arrogant about it, then my jealousy and spite were worse.
‘But now I’m able to see the sort of man you really are. You never shirked any of the labours set before you, even though they were deemed impossible, and you’ve completed every one so far – not just through Zeus’s gift of strength and courage, but by your own skill, intelligence and determination. And could any of the labours have been carried out if you hadn’t first defeated the greatest obstacle of all – your own pride? You did something beyond the reach of many of us: you changed from the person you were into the person you had to be. You accepted slavery – to Eurystheus, of all people – because that’s what was needed to face your crime. A crime you aren’t even responsible for.
