by Glyn Iliffe
‘Get a move on,’ the guard said, revelling in his authority over a man many times his own strength.
It was part of the joke that he had been assigned this particular guard. A single soldier could do nothing, anyway, if Heracles chose to disobey his orders; but the soldier who had watched over him for the weeks of his slavery so far was barely even a man. Perhaps Eurystheus thought it was more humiliating to have him guarded by a fair-haired boy with a lamb’s wool beard that barely hid the cluster of spots on his chin. At first, the lad had been terrified of Heracles, but after surviving the first few days of his duties, he had grown in confidence. Recently, he had taken to making a display of his authority over Heracles, especially if anyone important – or any young women, like the three or four among the crowd of onlookers now – had come to observe the giant in his charge. Not that Heracles cared. If this was part of the penitence he had to pay, then let the boy have his fun.
He carried the block of stone over to the scaffold and eased it down onto a wooden pallet with ropes attached to each corner. Without waiting for the guard to state the obvious, he took hold of a rope hanging down from a pulley that jutted out from the topmost platform of the scaffold. Wrapping it twice around his right wrist, he gathered in the slack and looked up. A huddle of faces were staring down at him. One of them – the head builder – cursed him for his slowness and told him to hurry up. Another laughed and squirted out a long glob of spittle, which splashed into the dirt beside Heracles’s sandalled foot.
Enjoy your moment of fun , he thought. Like his guard, the masons and builders had been terrified of his presence for the first few days of constructing the new tower on the outer wall. But they had soon realized the colossal slave would take any abuse thrown at him, and thought it a sign of weakness: a chance to show their own bravery to each other and anyone who cared to watch. Like hunters around a netted boar, they thought themselves very brave in goading him, not knowing how dangerous a game they were playing.
The guard took the opportunity to jab him in the side with the base of his spear.
‘Are you just going to stand there, or what?’ he called, to the giggles of the watching girls.
Heracles bit back his pride. His old self would have killed any man who dared to poke him with either end of a spear, and he felt the tremors of his old anger threatening to resurface. Then he reminded himself that he was not the man he once was. The old Heracles had died when he had murdered his own children. Now he was nothing more than a slave atoning for his crimes. Though, as each new day passed without sign of the first of the labours he was to carry out, he wondered whether he would ever be free of his guilt.
He pulled down on the rope. His muscles strained with the initial effort and the stone jerked upwards and began to swing on the pallet. The giggling stopped and was replaced by intakes of breath. He waited for the motion to slow, conscious of the creaking timbers above him, then unlooped the rope from around his wrist and began to haul, one hand over another, slowly and steadily until the pallet reached the top of the city wall. There, several hands reached out and took hold of the ropes at the corners of the pallet, pulling it onto the scaffold with a chorus of grunts and shouts. The weight of the stone caused the structure to shudder and groan, releasing small clouds of dust from the joins.
When it was safe, Heracles released the rope and began climbing the ladder that led up to the top. He could see the layers of new stone as he ascended, each massive block lifted and put into place by his strength – many weeks of labour reduced to a few long days by his efforts, and not a word of thanks from the men whose pains he had saved. Reaching the platform, he hauled himself onto the deck and crossed to where the stone waited for him on its pallet. Half a dozen men had been working on the upper reaches of the new tower, dressing the stones that had already been hauled up that day, but they all fell silent and stepped back at Heracles’s approach. The head builder told him which way round the stone was to go, then left him to lift it up and ease it into place.
When the work was done, he walked to the edge of the platform and looked down at the hovels below. The crowd of spectators – wealthy and poor, free and slave – were still there, waiting for him to descend. Even after weeks of carrying out the menial tasks ordered by Eurystheus, the novelty of coming to see him had not worn off. Whether felling trees in the forest, ploughing stony ground that no one else had the strength to break up, building walls, digging cesspits, or even mucking out the stables where the king’s livestock was kept, people were still drawn to stare at him. Constantly changing crowds followed him everywhere.
Mostly, they had delighted in hurling abuse at him. To the nobles, he was an enemy of King Eurystheus; a man rumoured to have been captured and forced into slavery. To others, he was said to be a common criminal, condemned to hard labour for his foul deeds. Some of the poorest resented that such a man had been sent to live among them, their anger stoked by the family who had been forced to give up their decrepit and tiny home for his sake.
Within a couple of days, the truth of his crimes had caught up with him. Shouts of child murderer followed him through the streets. He heard snatches of their conversations, as the informed among the crowds told their neighbours that he had butchered his own sons in a fit of madness. Indeed, the truth was kinder than the exaggerations that also sprang up. Some dared to spit on him, slap him or kick him as he trudged past them to his daily tasks, the hate clearly written on their faces. They would throw filth at him – not always from animals – and mothers would gather up their children at his approach, fearful he would do to them what the rumours said he had done to his own boys. And that he hated most of all. To be denied the innocent company of children made his drudgery far worse.
And still there had been no word from Eurystheus about the first labour. He wanted nothing more than to be sent on a dangerous quest that would appeal to his natural courage and strength – anything that would take him away from the insults and accusatory looks that were his daily lot on the streets of Tiryns. But maybe that was the point. The king and Iphicles – Heracles sensed his brother’s influence in the menial tasks he had been allotted – were enjoying his humiliation and frustration. Why would they give him what he wanted? Why help him find relief from the guilt of his crimes when they could so easily increase his suffering?
Their silence made his anguish more intolerable. When the Pythoness had told him there was an answer to why he had killed his children, and even a way to cleanse his conscience, the burden of his guilt had become suddenly bearable. Hope of a way out had made life worth living again. But now he was beginning to wonder whether there were any labours, whether the gods had lied and his torment would be interminable, like a living Hades. The thought of a life of servitude under a man such as Eurystheus was too much to bear. Better to kill the king when the opportunity arose, and let his many archers and spearmen put him out of his misery.
But though his hope was diminished, the abuse had grown less. Those who came from the inner city continued to insult and humiliate him, but the anger of those wretched souls who lived in the slums that swilled around the city walls had begun to fade. In the first week it had been bitter, fuelled by the anger of the family whom Tydeus’s guards had thrown out of their ramshackle hut to make way for him. As he had set off every morning – to build walls and plough ground filled with rocks – they had called him a thief and pelted him with stones.
He had not said a word in response, but each evening as he returned it was in a borrowed cart filled with pieces of unwanted rock and discarded wood. And every night, from dusk until midnight, he had used the stones to build the walls of a new home at the edge of the shanty town, with a solid door and steps up to a flat roof. It was four times the size of the hut he had been given, so when he picked up the mother of the family and took her there by force – her fists pounding his back and a dozen angry children shouting insults in his wake – the gift silenced them. After that, they never insulted him again, not even for the mur
der of his own children.
When others saw what he had done, they also began to think better of him. They saw, too, the bundles of wood he had gathered from his work in the forest, which he laid at the doors of the oldest in their community. They began to accept the morsels of food he brought back from the farms where he had been sent to plough fields and build sheep pens; and they were pleased to find their crumbling walls mended with fresh stone, their broken doors repaired and the holes in their roofs patched over. Few among those who lived in the hovels insulted him now, or shouted child murderer when he walked by. Indeed, in a city of heavy-handed soldiers and bullying nobles, they felt safer having him around.
The sun was dipping towards the western hills now. He climbed down the ladder and – shadowed once more by his guard – went to where the mason was sitting astride another block of stone and chipping away with his chisel.
‘I ain’t finished yet,’ he grumbled, without raising his eyes from his work. ‘You’re too quick, doing the work of a dozen men in a quarter of the time. It’s nearly sunset anyway. Go empty that wagonload of stone from the quarry and bring it over here, then you can go do whatever your boy wants you to do.’
He indicated the guard with a sneer, then returned to his chiselling. Heracles lifted the blocks of stone from the cart, carrying them over to where the mason was sitting. By the time he had finished, the sun had sunk below the hills and a dusky twilight was descending. He walked up to the guard, who was talking with two of the young girls in the dwindling crowd. One of them gave him an admiring look, but the other let out a little squeal and backed away, pulling her companion with her. The other onlookers also stepped back, many with scornful expressions on their faces and offensive words on their lips.
‘The mason doesn’t need me any more,’ he said. ‘Do you have any other work?’
The guard looked uncertain. He wanted to be seen to be in charge – especially in front of the girls he had been chatting to – but without orders he could not think of anything. His jaw flapped indecisively.
‘Then I’ll go home,’ Heracles said.
He passed through the crowds and into the narrow streets of the lower city. The soldier trotted along at his heels, trying to look as if he were still guarding Heracles. As they reached the main thoroughfare that led up to the gates of Tiryns, they came across a crowd of people. At their centre was a cart, listing to one side. It was loaded with sacks, which looked as if they might tip out at any moment. The driver was a farmer with a red face and a flustered expression, who was busy shooing away the half-starved street children that were trying to help themselves to the contents of the sacks. At a glance, Heracles could see that one of the wheels of the cart had become trapped in a deep rut and had broken.
‘Do you have a spare?’ he asked.
The farmer stared up at him uncertainly.
‘Yes, of course. The problem is lifting the damn cart up so I can change it.’
Heracles took hold of the back of the wagon, raising it out of the rut with one easy movement. The farmer stared in astonishment for a moment, then rushed to get the replacement wheel. The broken one was removed after a short struggle, and the new one lifted into its place.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said, taking Heracles by the hand. ‘How can I repay you?’
‘I have need of some grain and a few apples,’ Heracles replied, guessing the contents of the sacks.
The farmer seemed a little less grateful at the suggestion, but nodded and began filling an empty sack from one of the others until it was a third full of grain. Opening another, he pulled out a few armfuls of red apples and tossed them into the other sack, which he handed over with a small nod. Heracles reached inside and took two of the apples, tossing one to his guard before biting into the second. Then, with a wave to the farmer, he slung the sack across his shoulder and continued on into the crowded slums.
The streets became narrower and dirtier, the hovels closer set, meaner and more ramshackle. Old men and women sat beside their doorways, watching him as he passed, while young women stood with babies on their hips, or knelt on the floor in threes and fours grinding grain. Groups of men stood at the street corners, and at the sight of them Heracles’s escort quickened his pace to be closer to his charge. And everywhere there were knots of street urchins. Many of these quickly began to gather behind Heracles, calling his name expectantly and asking what was in his bag. He did not answer, or even look at them, but every now and then he would take an apple from the sack and toss it over his shoulder.
As he came nearer to his hut, he paused beside the old folk and some of the younger mothers, scooping a couple of handfuls of grain into any bowl, cup, or piece of cloth that was around. They blessed him for his kindness, some taking his hand and kissing it. But by the time he reached the narrow lane where he lived, he sensed something was wrong. Where normally the blankets over the doorways would be tied back and people would be gathered in small groups, sitting, chatting, or carrying out their evening chores, the entire street was deserted. Even the children and dogs were absent, leaving the place eerily quiet.
He looked back at the last gaggle of followers, still hoping for some morsel to be thrown their way, and tossed them the sack to argue over. Raising his hands so they understood he had nothing left, he looked at the guard and nodded to the spear in his hand.
‘Be ready with that.’
He walked up the lane, looking for signs of what had driven the inhabitants into their hovels. Pausing to push aside one of the curtained doorways, he peered into the gloom and saw a mother and her children huddled in one corner.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, but she simply shook her head and gathered her children closer about her.
He dropped the curtain and carried on. A shuttered window opened a crack and a woman’s face appeared. She was old and he had helped her with faggots of wood and bits of food here and there. She shook her head at him and pointed back the way he had come, then quickly closed the shutter again. When he reached his own hut, he noticed the door was shut. As he had nothing to steal, he generally left it open.
He turned to his escort.
‘Give me your sword.’
‘I…I can’t.’
Heracles pulled the man’s shield aside, grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled it free of its scabbard. The blade shone dully in the half-light of evening. Turning, he pushed open the door of his hut and stooped to enter.
Four soldiers were waiting for him, their spears levelled at his stomach. Behind them was a fifth man, sitting on the only chair, with a naked sword across his lap. It was Tydeus.
‘What’s going on?’ asked the guard from outside.
‘Get on back to your barracks, lad,’ Tydeus said. ‘You’re not needed here.’
‘And don’t forget this,’ Heracles added.
He opened the door and tossed his sword out to him. The young soldier hesitated, then picked it up and ran.
‘What do you want with me?’ he asked.
‘I want nothing with you. If I’d had my way, you would never have entered the city gates all those weeks ago. But I’m not the king. Eurystheus is, and he wants to see you. You’re to come with us to the palace.’
‘Very well.’
Heracles backed out of the hut, followed by Tydeus and his guards, and together they marched to the city gates. He had not entered the walled part of Tiryns since that first day, his duties invariably confining him to the outer slums and the farms and forests beyond. All eyes were upon him as he walked through the gates. Inevitably, calls of child murderer and monster followed him as was escorted to the gates of the citadel. The streets inside were less crowded, but the sense of hostility was keener. One fat woman, accompanied by a chubby infant and its nurse, walked up and spat in his face. Tydeus waved one of the guards forward, who eased her aside with the flat of his shield. Heracles wiped the spittle from his cheek and followed Tydeus into the approach to the final set of gates, their footsteps echoing from the high
battlements on either side. The gates were opened at the sight of Tydeus, who led the way into the acropolis. They passed the stables and entered the courtyard before the temple of Hera.
‘What am I being summoned for?’ he asked, walking alongside Tydeus.
The captain of the guard shrugged.
‘How would I know? Perhaps they’re unhappy that you’ve been busy making a name for yourself in the outer city. If the king thinks you’re stoking up rebellion, he’s not going to be pleased. You’re trouble, Heracles. Iphicles should have let me deal with you that day by the gates.’
The royal guards opened the doors to the inner courtyard and the two men stepped through, followed by their escort. The portals to the great hall were already standing open. Inside it was gloomy, lit only by the blazing hearth and a few torches on the walls and pillars. There were no nobles present this time, though a score of spearmen and archers stood against the east and west walls. Eurystheus sat on his throne, flanked on either side by Iphicles and Copreus.
Heracles approached the long hearth and faced the king. Tydeus followed an arm’s length behind. Close enough to stab him in the back, he thought. Was that the reason he had been summoned, because Eurystheus believed he was fomenting rebellion by easing the suffering of a few helpless wretches in the slums? The idea seemed laughable. But perhaps Eurystheus had a right to be afraid. After all, Heracles had delivered Thebes from its oppressors simply because he had taken pity on Creon’s people.
As he looked at the pot-bellied king, outsized by the throne in which he sat, his mind returned to the gloomy thoughts that had gnawed at him through the weeks of his slavery. Perhaps the oracle had lied about the labours, giving him hope of absolution where there was none. Perhaps the gods had only ever intended for him to be mocked and humiliated as a slave, then executed for his crime when he had served his purpose. If there were labours for him to carry out, why had they not been announced? If there were not, then there was no chance he would ever be redeemed of his sins. And if Eurystheus had brought him here to have him killed, would it not be better to snatch the sword from Tydeus’s scabbard and hurl himself at the king, running him through before the spearmen and archers could bring him down under a hail of bronze?