by Glyn Iliffe
‘Take? They’re not for barter.’
‘I can give you a potion that will make your husband virile.’
‘No.’
‘A talisman to ward off disease, powerful enough to protect your whole family.’
‘I have no family,’ Megara snapped. ‘Not any more. And I don’t care for your potions, poultices or trinkets.’
‘Then what do you intend to do with them?’
Megara thought for a moment.
‘I…I want to experience their magic for myself.’
The woman shook her head.
‘You don’t know what you’re asking, child. Even an adept would struggle to control the effects of these mushrooms. To the ignorant, they could be fatal. Worse, your mind could wander beyond the boundaries of this world and never return.’
Megara looked into the flames, contemplating the witch’s words. From the moment she had seen the strange mushrooms that morning in her house, her suspicions had been aroused. What were they? How did they get into her kitchen? On an impulse, she had taken them away and dried them out to preserve them. Then her thoughts had wandered to other things. But she did not forget the mushrooms. They remained a mystery that needed solving, like a small cut that irritated but did not pain.
Some time later, she had asked the head cook at her father’s palace about them. The cook did not recognize them, so she sent her to the old housemaid, Phaedra. She had not known them either, but told Megara about a woman in the woods who knew all there was to know about herbs and medicines, as well as much other wisdom that the rest of the world had forgotten. And now the witch had answered Megara’s question: it seemed the mushrooms were not just a harmless mystery. They had found their way into her house for a reason. They meant something.
But if they had played any part in the destruction of her family, then she had to understand what that part was. She had to experience their magic for herself, whatever the danger. After all, she asked herself, what more did she have to lose?
‘I’m prepared to take that risk. What do I do? Eat them raw?’
She stood and reached round to take the mushrooms. The witch pulled them from her grasping fingers, a look of incredulity on her face.
‘That would be suicide,’ she exclaimed. ‘No, I will not have a nobleman’s daughter kill herself in my home. And certainly not the daughter of Creon himself! You never eat them raw.’
‘Then tell me what I should do?’
‘Are you so determined?’ the witch asked, a trace of sympathy softening her gaze. ‘Are you really so desperate?’
‘I am.’
‘Then I will help you. I will cook a broth with one of the mushrooms – just one, mind you. That will be more than enough. The rest I will keep as my payment. Do you agree?’
‘Will it show me what I’m looking for?’
‘That I can’t say. But a child of your ignorance would see no more with ten than they would with one. And at least with just one, you will most likely still be yourself when you return. Or I hope you will be.’
‘Then I agree. Tell me what I can do to help you prepare.’
The witch threw her head back and laughed.
‘Are all princesses as naive as you? I need time to prepare things properly. You are Creon’s daughter, are you not? I don’t need special powers to know that, just my eyes and the memory of seeing you on the walls of your father’s citadel. If something happened to you in my cave, the king would have me boiled alive.’
‘No one knows I’m here.’
‘Apart from the one who told you where to find me, eh? No, you must be patient. Come back in three days from now and everything will be ready.’
Megara stood and stepped away from the flames.
‘In three days’ time, then,’ she said, and left the cave.
* * *
The journey back to Tiryns had taken many days, on roads that passed through valleys where the harvests had now been taken in, and through towns where people were busy buying grain, ready for the approach of winter. But wherever Heracles went, all eyes turned in awe to watch the muscle-bound colossus with the black lion-skin cloak, and the pure-white hind that followed in his wake like an obedient hound, its golden-antlered head held high. Many took the man for a god, bowing their heads or kneeling as he passed by. And whenever he stopped to buy food, people gave it to him freely – more than even he could eat – asking only for his blessing in return.
Once, a priest tried to restrain the people in whatever nameless town he was passing through from revering him, telling them that the stranger was none other than Heracles – a child killer and enemy of the gods. But instead of being driven off, Heracles had to intervene to save the priest from being pitched over a cliff edge by the townsfolk.
He never stayed in any of the towns, though. He was uncomfortable with the adoration of people who – if they had known he truly was a child killer – would have quickly turned from worship to hatred. Besides, he preferred to sleep under the stars, warming himself by a fire of his own making and thinking of the things he had left behind, and the things that lay ahead. He had thought much about Nesaia and her parting words after he had gathered his few belongings from the cottage and prepared to head south.
‘Stay with us, Heracles.’
‘I can’t,’ he had answered, shaking his head. ‘I have many more tasks to perform before I can be free.’
She had given a derisive laugh.
‘You already are free – freer than any man in the world. No one can stop you from doing anything you choose to do.’
‘I’m not free of the past, Nesaia. If you knew the things I’d done, you wouldn’t try to stop me from going. You’d sigh with relief and thank the gods they’d delivered you from me.’
‘But I don’t know what you’ve done, and I don’t want to know. Neither does Myrine. Whatever it is you’re running from, you can find peace here with us. I would be a good wife to you.’
He had reached up and dabbed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.
‘I know you would, if I was free to marry you. But you cannot offer me peace. I can only find that by completing my service to Eurystheus, and the labours he sets me. Goodbye, Nesaia.’
And every day since he had pondered his words. Would he really be unable to find peace, with a woman and child who loved him and cared nothing for his past? And was he really able to relieve the burden from his conscience by completing a series of labours? Had not Artemis told him that absolution could not be earned, that it was the gift of the gods? Then why was he so determined to complete the tasks set for him?
Because he had to. It was the path ordained for him by the gods, and he knew that to kick against their goadings would only lead to more suffering – for himself, and also for those closest to him. He could try to hide with a family who knew nothing about his past, and who – for a while, at least – would not ask. He could cut down trees, chop wood, breed more goats and pigs, plough some of the waste ground around the cottage to grow vineyards and olive groves. He could trade surpluses in the local town and make his new family steadily wealthier, building them a larger house from stone, with more rooms for the other children that he and Nesaia would have together over the years. He could do all the things he had done before with Megara and the boys, keeping himself busy enough not to think about what was waiting within – that part of his character that could never be domesticated, the part that had come from his Olympian father.
He had been aware of it since his early youth. Wealth and glory had never appealed to him, only the thrill of testing his unique powers and abilities to their limits. Perversely, the two labours he had been set by Eurystheus had made him feel more alive than he had done since he had liberated Thebes from King Erginus. And that, he had begun to realize, was the problem. He had not been meant to settle down and have a family. The gods had greater purposes for him, and if he turned from those purposes then the gods would bring him back to them, one way or another. So, if the Pythone
ss had told him he could only find peace through completing ten impossible labours, then perhaps she knew him better than himself.
The weather was noticeably colder by the morning when he stood once more on the ridge overlooking Tiryns. The city had not changed. The slums of the lower town still teemed with activity as merchants, farmers and fishermen brought their goods in to market. The streets were thronged with wagons and livestock, and even from a distance Heracles could hear the constant bleating of sheep and goats and smell the mixture of fresh fish and animal dung wafting up to him on the breeze. The guards still patrolled the walls, looking down at the teeming life below them with arrogant disdain. It was as if he had never been a part of the city, and he wondered if anyone in Tiryns even remembered that he had been sent on his impossible mission to capture the sacred hind. Surely some rumour would have gone ahead of him, about a man coming down from the mountains followed by a white hind with golden antlers. Or perhaps such tales would be dismissed out of hand, and those who told them scorned and mocked. They would remember him soon enough, though, he thought.
‘We’re here,’ he told the hind, standing in its customary place a few paces behind him. ‘Follow me to the palace so that the king can set his eyes upon you, then you’re free to go.’
He walked down the slope to the edge of town. A group of children spotted him first. One of them ran towards him – a tall lad whom he recognized from the street where he had lodged for the first few weeks of his bondage to the king. He looked at him as if he were a phantom, then turned and sprinted back to his friends.
‘It’s him! It’s him!’ he shouted. ‘Heracles has returned.’
The others stared for a moment, then as one they disappeared into the streets, heralding his return. By the time he had reached the first hovel, the street was already lined with onlookers, glancing first at him, then the magnificent creature behind him, then back at him. Their reaction was similar to those he had met in other towns, except they knew he was not a god, but a man who had returned against all expectation. Everyone had heard of the sacred hind that could outrun the wind, and which was not to be harmed upon pain of incurring the anger of Artemis. And yet she was walking behind Heracles as if attached to him by an invisible chain. Not a mark was on her body, and the look on her proud features was not one of defeat and subservience, but one of consent.
The guards opened the gates without question and an escort was detailed to accompany him through the astonished crowds and up to the citadel. A messenger ran on ahead. By the time they had reached the next gate, Tydeus was waiting for him. He gave the hind a long look, then turned his attention to Heracles.
‘You’re not to enter the palace any more.’
‘What? Doesn’t he think fifty armed guards are enough to protect him?’
‘The king didn’t appreciate having the carcass of a dead lion thrown at him across the great hall,’ Tydeus replied. ‘From now on, he’ll address you from the battlements of the citadel.’
Heracles could tell from the stiffness in Tydeus’s voice that he was hiding his disdain for Eurystheus’s cowardice. The captain of the guard said no more, but turned on his heel and strode through the open gates into the citadel. Even here the streets were lined with spectators, come to see for themselves if the rumours were true. The wealthy, highborn and powerful stood pressed together with slaves, soldiers and temple prostitutes, all of them staring in disbelief at the hind as it followed Heracles, marvelling at its majesty. Then, as he reached the top of the slope, a voice called down from the walls of the palace.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Eurystheus said. ‘What magic is this? Tydeus, lay hands on the animal and check that it isn’t some other deer powdered white and with gold leaf wrapped around its horns.’
‘Don’t touch her!’ Heracles commanded, his voice so powerful that Tydeus stopped in his tracks and stepped back. ‘The hind will not tolerate the hands of the impure. Send a child to satisfy your doubts, if the evidence of your eyes isn’t enough for you – but touch her at your peril.’
Copreus stepped forward. He was dressed in a black cloak with a fur collar that rippled in the wind blowing across the battlements.
‘It is the Ceryneian Hind, my lord,’ he announced. ‘No wild animal would walk through crowded streets like a trained horse; it has to be the one sacred to Artemis.’
‘Very well,’ Eurystheus said, the resentment clear in his voice. ‘The labour has been completed.’
Heracles turned to the animal. He had often marvelled at her splendour and dignity as she had trotted behind him on their long journey together, or as she had lain down to sleep at the edge of his camp, her coat silvered by the moonlight. Now, at the point of their parting, he felt shame that he had harmed her and caused her blameless blood to be spilled. Conscious of his guilt, he bent his knee before her and bowed his head. The hind lowered her golden antlers, then turned and broke into a gallop, her bronze hooves sparking on the cobbled road. The crowds that had closed in behind them swept back before her, and the guards threw the gates open just in time for her to dash through into the streets beyond.
‘So, you’ve proved there’s more to you than muscle and bone-headed determination,’ Iphicles said, laying his hands on the crenellated battlements and staring down at his brother. ‘But you won’t find the next task so straightforward.’
‘I’m ready.’
Heracles’s refusal to be cowed clearly annoyed Iphicles.
‘At the place where the River Amymone empties into the sea is the Lernean Swamp,’ he said. ‘For many years it has been a place of darkness and misery. Countless travellers have lost their way and drowned in the bogs, or fallen prey to the darker things that dwell there. Rumours have long spoken of monsters lurking in the swamp, armoured beasts with great claws that can slice a man in two. But now a new beast has made its lair among the marshes, hidden by the ever-present fog until, on occasion – whether from hunger or malice – it emerges to attack the nearby fishing villages. It has already killed many people, showing no mercy to man, woman or child.
‘Fearful for his people, the king of Argos has already sent his best soldiers to fight the beast. None have returned. So when he heard about your victory over the Nemean Lion, he asked King Eurystheus that you be sent to defeat the monster. It will be a difficult labour, Brother, if you have the courage to face it.’
‘I have the courage,’ he said. ‘What do you know of this beast?’
‘It is called the Hydra,’ Charis answered, stepping forward and tipping back the hood of her black cloak. ‘Hera has shown it to me in my dreams, a many-headed serpent that is truly hideous to behold. It is deadlier than its brother – the lion – and blacker of heart. What is more, Hera made one of the monster’s heads immortal. It cannot be killed.’
So this was the beast spoken of by the oracle and Artemis, Heracles thought. If he could overcome it, he would at last know why he had murdered his own children. But if the monster could not be killed, how could he find the answer he so desperately sought? How could he complete the labour and take the next step towards his absolution? He met the priestess’s gaze as she looked down from the battlements, and saw unexpected concern in her eyes.
‘Before the king of Argos pleaded for your help, the goddess told me that you were to be sent to face it,’ she continued. ‘I fear it will be too great a challenge, even for you, Heracles. Remember, you have a choice; you do not have to throw your life away needlessly.’
The others on the wall looked at her in surprise. Doubtless, Heracles thought, the goddess she served would not be pleased either.
‘You’re wrong, Charis,’ he said. ‘There is no choice for me, not if I want my freedom. I accept the challenge,’
* * *
‘More wine, my lord?’
Heracles looked up at the smiling maid, then pushed his cup forward. She refilled it from the skin she carried, deliberately leaning over so that the neck of her dress hung down before his gaze, revealing the deep chasm of
her cleavage.
‘Will you be staying the night?’ she asked. ‘We still have room.’
‘No,’ he replied, looking round the crowded inn. ‘I’ll sleep under the stars.’
‘Can’t blame you,’ she said. ‘There’s no privacy sharing a room with a dozen others. I have a little space of my own, out back where they store the hay for the horses. If you don’t mind the smell, the hay’s soft and there’s plenty of room. Enough for two.’
He glanced up at her. She was a few years older than himself; probably widowed, he thought, given that she had to work and take her lodgings in the stables of a large inn. And fine looking, despite a missing front tooth. Conscious of his gaze, she raised a fingertip to the gap.
‘Fell out of a tree when I was a girl.’
‘It suits you,’ he said, smiling.
She glanced at the three other men sitting at the table, but they were deep in conversation.
‘You can make your bed with me tonight,’ she suggested in a low voice, sliding her hand along the tabletop to touch his. ‘I don’t mind.’
He placed his fingers over hers, tempted by the offer. A woman’s attentions might be just the distraction he needed. Ever since leaving Tiryns that morning, his mind had been tormented by thoughts of the new danger he was heading into. If Charis herself – servant of Eurystheus and priestess to Hera – could sympathize with his fate, how terrible must the Hydra really be? And how was he to slay an immortal creature? But if Charis knew anything more about the monster he was to face, then she had not shared it with him, leaving the mysterious Hydra to grow larger and more terrible in his imagination.
‘Have you heard anything about a monster in the swamp at Lernea?’