SON OF ZEUS

by Glyn Iliffe

  ‘The blood washed from the walls?’ she asked, a bitter twist in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, Megara. Forgive me.’

  She squeezed his arm and looked up into his naive young eyes.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Iolaus. You meant no offence. I’m being selfish.’

  He smiled dismissively and shook his head.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she insisted. ‘But even if the overturned beds and the torn curtains were cleared away and all the walls and floors washed, those things can never be removed from my mind. That’s why I can’t go back.’

  ‘But you were so happy there once. Perhaps if you returned it would help you remember the good things. You can’t afford to let those memories fade away, Megara.’

  She looked across at the place that had once been her home, but felt only horror. Then she realized something.

  ‘You’ve been back there,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you?’

  He looked up at the sun, which had started its descent into the west.

  ‘Let’s get to the palace. I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I let you miss supper.’

  He made to carry on down the path, but she pulled him back.

  ‘Why did you go?’

  ‘To convince myself it was true. To find answers.’

  ‘And did you? Find answers, I mean.’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I suppose not. I still can’t fit what happened with the man I know. But I have to accept it did happen. I only went as far as the porch, where I found him when I arrived that morning. Where he tried to stab himself.’

  ‘And would have done if you hadn’t knocked his hand aside and deflected the blow against his ribs.’

  ‘Did I do wrong?’ he asked, his face pained and sincere.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Even now, I would not have him dead. Something in me still can’t believe he did it either.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should go there too. Face that darkness and defeat it. Overcome what happened and remember all the good things that came before. Remember what you and Heracles had together. Maybe one day—’

  ‘No!’ she snapped. ‘I may have loved him, Iolaus, and perhaps I still do – I don’t know. But he killed my children. How can I let those hands touch me again? How ?’

  Iolaus’s face was shocked at what he had dared to suggest. He approached her and placed his hands on her arms. She resisted for a moment, then fell into his embrace.

  Chapter Four

  The Palace of Eurystheus

  The wagon rumbled along the dirt track, raising a cloud of dust behind it. The solid wheels jarred against rocks and thumped into the furrows and potholes left by countless wagons before it. Heracles sat among sacks of grain in the rear, which cushioned the worst of the jolts, and looked back at the countryside they had left behind. It was rich with vineyards, orchards and fields of crops that waved in the breeze. Numerous farm buildings dotted the land, the larger ones boasting whitewashed walls and tiled roofs, while the smaller ones were constructed with bare stone and had roofs of thatch.

  The driver of the wagon lived in one of the latter. He was an old man with white hair, rheumy eyes and skin as weathered as bark. Heracles had loaded his cart with sacks of recently threshed barley in return for a ride to Tiryns, though the oxen that pulled it were so slow it might have been quicker to walk.

  ‘There it is,’ the old man said, as the cart passed through a cleft in a low ridge.

  Heracles turned onto one elbow and looked at the distant city. The citadel was built on a long, narrow hill of rock that rose up from the middle of the plain, its white walls and towers gleaming in the morning sun. This contained the palace of the king and the temples of the city’s gods, the roofs of which were visible above the battlements. Surrounding it was a mass of smaller buildings, contained inside an outer circuit of walls and gates, where the majority of the population lived and worked. Beyond the fortifications, spreading out like fronds of ivy into the surrounding farmland, were the hovels of the poor and dispossessed.

  The road led in a direct line to the main gate of the city, passing over countryside similar to that through which they had just passed. As the old man cracked his whip over the flanks of his skinny oxen, Heracles studied the land before him – land that should have been his to rule, if Hera had not brought his cousin, Eurystheus, from his mother’s womb first. It was a fertile country, abundant with vineyards, orchards, fat livestock and crops that were already being harvested. Many people were visible in the fields, gathering fruit or reaping corn and barley, their wide-brimmed hats protecting them from the fierce sun.

  As the wagon reached the ramshackle buildings on the outskirts of Tiryns, he saw women in doorways, many with babies on their hips as they chatted with their neighbours or shouted at the semi-naked boys and girls who were chasing each other through the alleyways and side streets. A few of the larger children ran after the wagon, holding their hands out and gesturing towards their mouths. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a heel of bread, the only food he had left. He broke it into four pieces and leaned over to hand them to the smallest children he could reach. A pack broke away, squabbling over the morsels he had given them, but many more took their places, calling out with pleading voices that had been practised on many a passer-by. The old man leaned aside and cracked his whip over their heads, sending them scuttling back to the sides of the road.

  Heracles turned and looked over his shoulder at the approaching gates. Soldiers with tall shields stood on the battlements above and along either side. The sunlight glinted from their spear points and helmets as they stared disdainfully over the parapet at the shanty town that lapped against their mighty walls. More men stood in the shadow of the gates, eyeing the stream of people entering the city. They questioned a few in harsh, bullying tones, before letting them through. A few others – street urchins and beggars – were driven off with the butts of their spears.

  One of the soldiers stepped in front of the cart and raised his hand.

  ‘What’s that in the back of the wagon, old man?’

  ‘Barley.’

  ‘Not the sacks, you fool. That.’

  He pointed at Heracles. The old man glanced over his shoulder and shrugged.

  ‘He asked for a ride into town, so I gave him one.’

  The guard came closer, eyeing Heracles’s muscles with cautious admiration and noting the club at his side.

  ‘What business do you have in Tiryns?’ he asked.

  ‘The same as everyone else – food, a place to stay, and some work to pay for it.’

  ‘Can you fight? If you know how to handle a weapon, my captain’ll be happy to have a man like you in his company.’

  ‘I can fight,’ Heracles replied. ‘What’s your captain’s name?’

  ‘Tydeus. Report to the north gate of the citadel, and make sure you say Pyrasos sent you.’

  He signalled for the gates to be opened, then waved the wagon forward. It started with a jolt – forcing Heracles to grip the sides – then rumbled beneath the shadow of the gatehouse and out again into the streets of the lower city. The noise and smells that the walls had masked now swept in on Heracles’s senses: the pungent odour of animal dung, the mingled tang of woodsmoke and cooked meat, the whiff of fish from the morning’s catch, and the aroma of mixed herbs and spices; stallholders advertising their goods in loud voices, the bleating of penned animals, the clatter of hooves in the dry mud as a troop of cavalry rode past, and the shouts of excited children following in their wake.

  Tiryns was like any other Greek city, filled with life in all its colours and varieties. And yet it was as if the weight of an unseen hand rested on the shoulders of every citizen and slave as they went about their business. Heracles could see it in their eyes: that careful glance at the soldiers patrolling the battlements; a furtive look at the groups of armed men as they wandered the streets, searching for signs of dissent.

  Heracles patted the old man on the shoulder in thanks, then slid
off the back of the cart. As he straightened himself up, he felt numerous pairs of eyes turn upon him. He caught a few of the glances, but instead of the usual lascivious gleam in the eyes of the women, or the admiring and envious stares of the men, he was met by something else. Pity?

  He heard footsteps and the clank of bronze behind him, and turned to be faced by half a dozen soldiers. Two of them had their spears levelled at his chest. Three more were eyeing the crowds on either side, who had stopped to take an interest in the giant newcomer. The sixth stood with drawn sword, looking up at Heracles.

  ‘Who are you? We don’t want troublemakers in Tiryns.’

  Heracles considered telling him that he was the cousin of the king and had been told by the oracle to offer him his services. But a glance at the man’s suspicious eyes told him he would not be believed. It was more likely he would be escorted out of the city and told never to come back, losing any chance of ever earning the redemption he was so desperate for.

  ‘I’m looking for Tydeus,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to join the guard.’

  ‘We have enough men already.’

  ‘Pyrasos sent me.’

  The soldier glanced towards the gatehouse. The gates were half shut and Pyrasos and his fellow guards were on the other side.

  ‘I’m his cousin,’ Heracles added. ‘He said there were always vacancies in the guard for men who can fight.’

  The man looked him over – his eyes pausing for a moment on the club hanging from his belt – and gave a cautious nod.

  ‘So you’re a cousin of Pyrasos, are you? Very well, follow me.’

  He gestured for the others to take up positions on either side of Heracles, then set off up the street. It followed a slight incline towards the citadel, the walls of which rose high above the lower part of the city. They were made from huge blocks of stone, and it was said they had been built by Cyclopes. But whoever had built them, it would take a powerful army to conquer such a stronghold, especially with the large number of soldiers manning the ramparts.

  People were quick to move out of their path as they approached, though a few were too slow and were brutally thrust aside. The guards were already big men – their commander had clearly picked them for their intimidating size – but the force with which they wielded their shields and spears in clearing a path was excessive, stirring Heracles’s anger. When a mother rushed to pull her infant child out of their way and was sent tumbling into the street, he felt his hold on his temper loosen dangerously.

  But he was not the only one. A man stepped out of the crowd with his fists clenched, snarling insults. Two of the guards lowered their spears at him, but he was undeterred and seized the shaft of one of the weapons, trying to wrench it free. Heracles darted between the two soldiers, grabbing the man by the wrist and twisting it so that he released the spear with a cry. He pushed him back into the crowd, still gripping his arm.

  ‘Be calm, my friend,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘It’s not worth your life.’

  The man sneered at him, then pulled himself away and disappeared into the press of onlookers. Heracles returned to help the woman and her child back to their feet.

  ‘You can forget sentiments like that if you want to be one of us,’ said the leader as Heracles rejoined the escort. ‘All it takes is one sign of weakness to spark a revolution.’

  ‘Is that your opinion, or your king’s?’ Heracles asked.

  ‘You’ll see in time. They’re not as docile as they look.’

  They followed the circuit of the citadel northwards until they reached a tall gatehouse. The doors in the arched entrance were open, and a dozen warriors stood watch over the trickle of people who passed between them.

  ‘Tydeus!’ the leader shouted to a tall, well-built officer with a plumed helmet and a black cloak.

  Tydeus narrowed his eyes at the group of soldiers and scrutinized the stranger in their custody, before waving them forward with a twitch of his fingers. He was square-jawed with a low forehead and thick eyebrows, but one glance at the dark eyes beneath told Heracles the man possessed a quick mind. The type of mind that was always two steps ahead of any opponent.

  He ignored the escort and fixed his stare on Heracles.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Heracles.’

  ‘Have you no father, Heracles?’

  ‘Son of Amphitryon.’

  Tydeus gave him a scrutinizing look. Heracles’s liberation of Thebes was well known in the north, and for a moment he wondered whether the Tirynian captain had heard of him too. But if he had, he clearly did not think the same man would come looking for work as one of Eurystheus’s guards.

  ‘And yet you’re ashamed to say it,’ Tydeus continued. ‘Or too proud. Let me guess, your mother said you were sired by a god, and poor old Amphitryon came along later to provide food and shelter.’

  ‘I’m no bastard.’

  ‘So what have you done to earn yourself an escort? You’re not a thief, that’s clear enough. I would have said you’d been fighting, but there’s not a mark on any of my men and it’d take twice as many of them to bring you here. So what is it?’

  ‘He wants to join the guard,’ answered the leader of the escort. ‘He’s a cousin of Pyrasos.’

  Tydeus shook his head.

  ‘That curly haired, jug-eared buffoon? I doubt it. There’s no resemblance at all, unless poor Amphitryon is Pyrasos’s uncle and your true father is… Which god did you say he was?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Heracles replied. ‘And I’m not here to join the guard. I’m here to speak to Eurystheus.’

  ‘King Eurystheus,’ Tydeus corrected him. ‘You should have stuck to your original story. After a few months in the guard, I might have trusted you to enter his presence. Now…’ he spat in the dirt and shook his head. ‘Now you don’t stand a chance.’

  He turned and gestured to the soldiers by the gates. Half a dozen ran over, their armour clanging about them.

  ‘Help Thrasios and his men take this fellow down to the city gates…’

  Two of them took Heracles’s arms, but he shook them off easily.

  ‘Eurystheus is my cousin. He will see me.’

  ‘Your cousin?’ Tydeus said, arching an eyebrow. ‘I thought that was Pyrasos? Pyrasos isn’t the king’s brother, is he, Thrasios?’

  ‘I’m sure he would have mentioned it,’ the soldier said with a grin.

  The group of spearmen – a dozen now in number – laughed. Two more took hold of Heracles’s arms and were pushed over into the dust. The laughter stopped and a ring of shields formed around him, hedged by a dozen spear points. Without hesitation, he seized the shaft of the nearest spear and dragged it from its owner’s hands, sweeping it round in a wide arc that drove the surprised guards back. He ran forward and kicked one of the shields, flattening the soldier beneath it before running over him.

  The gates to the citadel were open, with only Tydeus standing in his way. The guard commander slid the short sword from his belt and – with a smile of anticipation – planted his feet firmly apart in the dirt. Heracles unhitched the club from his belt and gave a snarl as he raised it over his head.

  ‘Wait!’

  A man was hurrying towards them from the gateway, his hands held high over his head. He wore a long blue tunic, and the hem of his richly embroidered purple cloak skimmed the dirt as he approached. His tall headdress added to his already considerable height, and it was obvious from his clothing and the golden sash about his waist that he was a figure of importance. He waved back the line of soldiers that was forming behind Heracles and stopped beside Tydeus.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ the man demanded.

  ‘A small disagreement, that’s all,’ Tydeus replied. ‘If you’ll return to the safety of the gate, we’ll have the matter sorted in moments.’

  ‘I doubt that, Tydeus. Do you even know who you’re dealing with?’

  ‘Do you?’ the captain replied, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Yes, and you’ll need more th
an a dozen men if you intend to use force. But that won’t be necessary now I’m here.’

  The man turned his gaze on Heracles, who lowered his club and stared back, studying him with disdain. The rich clothing, the oiled hair and tightly plaited beard spoke of his new-found authority, but the high forehead and soft brown eyes were the same. As would be the coldly logical brain behind them, with its immense capacity for useless facts and figures.

  ‘Iphicles,’ he said, acknowledging the man with a nod.

  ‘Brother,’ Iphicles replied.

  ‘So,’ Tydeus said, sheathing his sword, ‘you are that Heracles. Then I’m disappointed our argument didn’t go further. Keeping surly peasants in line is no match for a proper fight. Another day, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Heracles answered. He turned to Iphicles. ‘Well, Brother, it seems you’ve found a new hole to hide in. Have you finished reading through the palace library yet?’

  ‘Everything of use to a king’s adviser, yes. And I see you’ve exchanged your sword for a club. But you always did prefer brute strength. Why cut and thrust when you can simply crush everything in your path? What do you want in Tiryns? I doubt very much you’re looking for me .’

  ‘And if I’d known you were here, I’d have thought twice about coming. But if you’re an adviser to Eurystheus then maybe our meeting is opportune. I want to speak with him.’

  ‘It’s King Eurystheus, and I’m his chief adviser. Do you still have to belittle everybody, Heracles?’

  ‘I never belittled you, Brother. You always managed that far better than I ever could. But now it seems you have the whip hand. I need to come before King Eurystheus, and you’re the only one who can get me there.’

  ‘What’s your business with him?’

  ‘What I have to tell him will come from my lips and mine only. Though I’m sure you’ll be pleased at what you hear.’

  Heracles looked at his twin brother, who his mother had told him was sired by Amphitryon the very same day as he had been sired by Zeus. They were as different as it was possible to be, and yet their births had been separated by mere moments. Doubtless Iphicles’s calculating mind was weighing up the risks of refusing him entry there and then – with just a handful of guards to hand – and allowing him into Eurystheus’s presence, where there would be many more soldiers to deal with any trouble.