by Glyn Iliffe
He glanced at Tydeus, noting the sword hanging at his hip. It would be easy, he thought, and at least he would die with honour. But first he would let Eurystheus speak, and justify his own death by whatever insult or threat he intended to make.
‘What is my lord’s wish?’ he asked.
Eurystheus did not answer. Instead, he lifted his hand and made a small gesture. Heracles tensed, expecting the archers to raise their bows, but they remained as they were. Then a soldier stepped from the shadows and walked towards him, carrying a large object wrapped in sacking. He whipped away the cloth and threw the object at Heracles’s feet. To his surprise it was a leather cuirass, covered in bronze scales that gleamed like snakeskin in the firelight. The armour was large, but if it was intended for Heracles then it was still too small. Perhaps deliberately so.
A second man came forward. In one hand, he carried a domed helmet with a white horsehair plume and leather cheek guards. In his other, he held a long sword and scabbard. Kneeling, he placed them beside the body armour, then retreated back to the rank of guards. Finally, a third soldier approached with a tall shield of four-fold oxhide and a pair of leather greaves, laying them down with the other weapons and armour.
‘What’s this?’ Heracles asked.
Copreus limped forward, leaning heavily on his staff.
‘You’ll need them soon.’
‘For what? Building a sheep pen? Chopping down trees? Mucking out a pigsty, maybe?’
Copreus’s face was impassive.
‘For your first labour.’
Heracles’s eyes narrowed. He had expected more disgrace – death, even – but to be given the thing he desired most of all? He stepped forward and picked up the helmet. On closer inspection, the leather was old and cracked and the fit far too small. The shield seemed to be well oiled and sturdy, but he had always disdained the use of shields. The same went for the leather breastplate and greaves, which he ignored. Then he closed one hand about the scabbard and with the other scraped the blade free. It had a dull gleam and the edge was nicked and blunt. He dropped it back in and tossed it on top of the pile of armour.
‘Keep your trinkets,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Not we ,’ Eurystheus said. ‘Hera revealed the labour to Charis in a dream. When you understand what it is, you may regret scorning our offer of weapons and armour.’
‘I would scorn any protection, even if Hephaistos himself made it for me. As for the sword, it hasn’t been used for decades. Yours perhaps, my lord?’
‘It’s merely a token,’ Copreus said. ‘Even the sharpest sword would be of no use to you against the enemy Hera has chosen.’
‘Whatever his strength, courage or skill at arms, no man is invulnerable to bronze.’
‘Maybe so, but your opponent is not a man. It is not even an animal, though at first sight it may have the appearance of a lion. But in truth it isn’t a creature of this world. It came from the womb of Echidna.’
‘Echidna?’ Heracles exclaimed.
‘Yes, the Mother of Monsters,’ Copreus said, mistaking Heracles’s reaction for fear. ‘We know little about this lion, other than rumours that its hide cannot be pierced by any weapon. It appeared some weeks ago in the region of Nemea, coming down regularly from its mountain lair to ravage the surrounding countryside, killing every living thing in its path.’
‘You are to destroy the beast,’ Eurystheus said. ‘Track it to its lair and kill it, then bring its carcass back here. Only then will I consider the labour complete.’
Heracles nodded unconsciously, his thoughts already far away. Kill the spawn of Echidna that bears the immortal head , the Pythoness had told him. What the immortal head was, he could not guess. All he knew was that he had to face the monster and kill it, if he was ever to find out the reason why he had murdered his children. Turning on his heel, he strode past Tydeus towards the double doors.
‘Wait!’ Iphicles said. ‘We have one more thing to help you in your quest.’
Heracles snorted with derision.
‘Haven’t you had your fill of mocking me, Iphicles? Is it not satisfaction enough that you’ve found a task no man could ever hope to complete?’
‘And yet you show no signs of despair.’
‘If I succeed, I’m a step closer to being free of my guilt. If I fail, I’m free anyway.’
Iphicles signalled and another soldier came forward with a long bundle wrapped in cloth. He removed the covering to reveal a bow and a quiver filled with arrows. Heracles took them from him, slinging the quiver over his shoulder and handling the weapon with joyful familiarity.
‘How did you come by my own bow?’
‘I sent word to Iolaus in Thebes. I told him you had urgent need of it. Even if the arrows cannot pierce the hide of the monster, you can at least hunt your own food.’
Heracles gave him a sidelong glance. Had guilt at sending him to his death softened his hatred? Not that it mattered. The feel of his bow in his hands was like the embrace of an old friend; like discovering a part of the man he had once been.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and left the hall.
Chapter Eight
Molorchus
Heracles was escorted to the northern gate of the citadel, then made his own way down through the dark streets of the city to the outer walls. There were not many people to witness his departure, and those that did sneered at him as he passed, or told him to go back to the hovels where he belonged. One of the guards at the gate insulted him, to the amusement of the others, but Heracles was oblivious to them.
Outside the battlements, the streets and alleys were shadowy and threatening. A few of the tumbledown buildings showed glimmers of light at the edges of the covered doorways and windows, but most were unlit. Dogs that had slept through the heat of the day now roamed the empty thoroughfares, and here and there Heracles spotted sinister figures watching him from the shadows. Sometimes he passed two or three lurking together, but none were foolish enough to accost a man of his size.
He did not return to his hut. Eager to be free from the oppressive atmosphere of Tiryns, he took the road that led north from the city and followed it for a while under the light of the stars, which were emerging in thick clusters in the clear night sky. After a while, the moon rose over the mountains to the east and cast a silvery glow over the wide plains. The white walls of farm buildings stood out clearly amid the vineyards and olive groves, and the lowing of restless oxen and the hooting of owls punctuated the relentless hum of insects. He walked a little further, then crossed a field to a sheep pen and climbed over the low wall. The startled animals hurried away from him, bleating in protest before eventually settling down again. Using his quiver as a pillow, he threw his cloak over himself and was asleep within moments.
Waking before the sun had risen, he followed the road north to the foothills of the mountains. A few farmers were about in the fields and orchards on the valley floor, while up on the hillsides flocks of sheep and goats began to appear, picking their way over the rocks and pulling up tufts of grass while their shepherds kept an idle watch. Few people spoke to him as he passed, most of them wary of the large stranger with his bow and quiver of arrows. He reached a crossroads, where the right-hand road led towards two low peaks in the near distance. Hidden on a hill in the fold between them was the city of Mycenae. Occasional carts loaded with farm goods made their way along the road, as did herds of livestock and other travellers, while a few empty carts returned the other way. Heracles was tempted to turn off and see the city that, along with Tiryns, would have belonged to him if Hera had not delayed his birth and robbed him of his inheritance. But he resisted the distraction and moved on.
By afternoon he had left the plain and followed the track up into the hills, until he was looking down on the flat, green valley beyond. There were more rocky hills to the east, with wooded mountains to the north-west and the west. The valley looked fertile and populous, with numerous smoke trails rising up from the farmsteads do
tted throughout the fields. In the centre was a small town, surrounded by a stockade and a ditch. There were armed men in a wooden tower overlooking the approaches to the gates, but it was otherwise peaceful-looking.
He crossed the fields to the town, easing his hunger with a few olives gleaned from the farms that he passed through. The gate guards told him the town was Cleonae, in the land of Nemea. When he asked about the lion, they pointed west towards the mountains.
‘What are you?’ one asked. ‘Another glory hunter? There’s already too many men who’ve thrown their lives away going after that beast.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said the other. ‘That’s no ordinary lion you’re looking for. It’s a monster.’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘We don’t have to have seen it,’ replied the first. ‘We’ve seen what it’s done , and that’s enough. You’ll see it yourself, too, if you insist on going that way. And that bow of yours won’t save you. Take my advice and find yourself a good whore to spend your energies on. I can let you know a couple of good ones. Then, in the morning, go back home and be happy you’re still alive.’
‘If there’s any hope of happiness left to me, I won’t find it while that beast still lives.’
Heracles turned from the gates and followed a well-trodden track over the fields towards the mountains. The sun was melting into the high peaks ahead of him, and the nearer he got to the foothills, the quieter the countryside became. There were numerous farmsteads dotted across the western end of the plain, and the fields were full of crops, but most of the houses were empty and the overripe harvest had been abandoned, the swathes of wheat and barley whispering like ghosts in the breeze. The hills that should have been dotted with flocks of goats and sheep were bare and silent. Only a few stubborn souls remained, locked inside their walled homes with a few lonely animals penned up nearby. There were no signs of devastation that Heracles could see – just fear. And if the mere rumour of something could have this effect on a whole population of sturdy farmers in the midst of the harvest season, then how bad was the reality?
He followed the track north as it skirted the flanks of the foothills, before turning west again into a shallow spur of the valley that lay between two mountains. A stream issued out from woods at the far end, where the arms of the mountains overlapped. It ran gently down between the fields, its winding course marked by dark shrubs and stunted trees that sprang up from its banks. The track ran down to meet it, before following it back towards the woods.
Drawn by the sound of the water, Heracles walked to the stream and knelt by its low banks, scooping up great handfuls of the cool liquid to slake the thirst that had been building in him since noon. When he was satisfied, he raised his head and looked at the valley around him. The only sounds were of the rushing water, the breeze rustling the leaves of the nearby wood, and the constant hum of insects in the long grass. There was no smell of wood fires from the handful of farmsteads on either side of the stream, no telltale trails of smoke rising up into the evening sky or glimmers of light from the darkened windows. In this distant corner of the Nemean plain, no one remained.
There was more than a sense of abandonment, though. Here there were signs of deliberate destruction. The crops had, in many places, been trampled flat, and the vineyards on the sloping sides of the valley appeared to have been torn up and left to rot. And as he looked, he noticed that the walls of the numerous animal enclosures that dotted the fields had had holes knocked in them, and the fallen stones had been left like piles of bleached skulls in the dry grass.
An animal enclosure lay close to the stream, halfway between himself and the wood, with a white-walled farmhouse nearby. He followed the path towards the enclosure and quickly saw that a wide rent had been torn in its walls. Even before he reached it, he could hear the hum of flies and smell the stench of corruption. The carcasses of several sheep lay scattered about inside, their bones exposed where they had been ripped open and their entrails blackening in the sun. Flies crawled over the bloodied cadavers, which Heracles guessed had not been dead more than a day or two. Whatever had killed them, though, had not done it for food, for the slaughter had been indiscriminate. It had been done out of malevolence and a sheer lust for destruction.
He approached the farmhouse, but stopped after a few steps and knelt. In the mud was a single paw print. That it belonged to a lion was certain – he had seen similar tracks when he had hunted his first lion at Cithaeron. But this print was much larger and deeper, suggesting a creature half as big again as any normal lion.
He stood, and after scanning the fields around him, continued to the farmhouse. This was surrounded by a ditch and a hedge of thorn, and had a single entrance guarded by a sturdy gate. The gate, though, had been broken down, leaving the way to the farmhouse open. This was well built, with a wooden porch at the front and a pigsty against one side. But the destruction that had been visited on the sheep pen and the gate had not spared the house. The walls of the sty had been staved in, and the torn and bloated bodies of several pigs and piglets lay scattered about the yard. One of the columns that held up the roof of the porch had been smashed down, and though the roof had survived, it was sagging precariously. Beneath its shadow, Heracles could see that the door to the farmhouse had been pulled from its hinges and part of the doorway knocked down, as if something large had forced its way through the narrow entrance. Easing the bow from his shoulder, he plucked an arrow from his quiver, fitted it and advanced slowly on the shadowy doorway. Deep claw marks had been scored into the remains of the door, and as he knelt to spread his fingers over them, he realized they were twice the span of his own hand.
At that moment, a roar split the night air. Heracles threw himself back against the wall, his eyes scanning the dark fields beyond the hedge of thorn. He saw the shapes of the gnarled trees that lined the riverbanks – tortured black figures in the dusky gloom – but without the light of either sun or moon he could see little else. All he knew was that the roar had come from beyond the woods at the apex of the valley, and that it had not issued from the throat of any earthly creature. He tensed the bowstring and raised the fletch of the arrow to his right cheek as he moved to the edge of the porch.
Then something grabbed his arm. He gave a shout and released the arrow into the darkness, before regaining his wits and turning on his assailant. His hand shot out, seizing hold of the man’s throat.
‘Spare me! Spare me!’ croaked a voice.
Heracles released his grip and stepped back, eyeing the figure before him. He was an old man, thin and wiry with long grey hair and a grey beard. His large eyes looked up in terror at Heracles, though Heracles sensed his fear was not of the moment, but had been stretched out over many days. He rubbed at his throat, then pointed to the farmhouse.
‘Come inside with me.’
Heracles shook his head and fitted another arrow, looking out into the shadows.
‘I’ve come to hunt the beast, not hide from it.’
‘Hunt it, indeed!’ the man said, with a shake of his head. ‘Well, whether you’ll be the hunter or the hunted, the lion will not come tonight. That roar was from deep in the forest, up in the foothills. It has probably sensed your presence and is trying to draw you to its lair, where it has already killed many brave and desperate men.’
‘Then you know the whereabouts of its den?’
‘I know a little about the lion, learned through much bitter experience and grief. Come, eat and drink with me, then we can talk like civilized men.’
The mention of food reminded Heracles of his deep hunger – he had eaten nothing but a few olives and an apple since the morning of the previous day – and he gave a nod, following the old man into the farmhouse. The inside was a mess of broken furniture and scattered household items. A table had been overthrown and broken pots, wooden bowls and the remains of food were spread across the floor. To his dismay, he saw a child-sized mattress among the debris, its straw innards ripped out and a grey blanket trailing acr
oss the mess. Dark stains were splashed over the whitewashed walls, which even in the gloom he knew were blood. Whatever had happened in that small room had been horrific, more so because it reminded him of the chaos he had found that morning in his own children’s bedroom.
‘I thought the farms here had been abandoned,’ he said.
The man huddled down on a three-legged stool, and pointed to another amid the mess. Heracles took it and sat opposite him.
‘They were, but not quickly enough,’ the old man replied.
He reached for a grain sack on the floor and pulled out two oatcakes and some slices of cold goat meat, which he shared equally with Heracles. Picking up two wooden cups from the clutter, he unhooked a wineskin from a leg of the overturned table and poured a measure in each cup, handing one to Heracles. After dipping his fingers in the liquid and flicking a little onto the floor as a libation to the gods, he muttered a prayer for protection and took a swallow. Heracles did the same, though his prayer to his father was a silent one for strength and courage.
‘My name is Molorchus, son of Ptolemaios,’ the man said, offering his hand.
‘I am Heracles, son of Zeus.’
Molorchus gave him a questioning look, then took a bite of one of his oatcakes. Heracles ate his cake whole and followed it with both slices of meat.
‘What happened here?’
‘The first few nights we barely knew ourselves,’ Molorchus began. ‘We woke one morning to find all the livestock in one farmer’s sheep pen butchered. Not taken for meat – just killed and left! Some crops had been flattened, too, and a few of the vineyards destroyed. It was as if a small but powerful wind had passed through, or an angry god as we thought. That happened for the next couple of mornings, until one day we found an old farmer and his wife torn to shreds in their home. Nobody knew who or what had done it, or why. Men stood watch over their farms that night, and we were all terrified by fearsome noises coming from the forest – the same you heard for yourself earlier. But in the morning the same had happened to another home. A whole family this time: father, mother and four children. Ripped apart.