by Glyn Iliffe
The Hydra’s heads darted down at the dead crab, pulling the legs from their sockets and ripping open its armoured underbelly. In a savage frenzy, it tore its former ally to pieces, scattering them across the swamp until only the hollow upper shell remained. One of the heads rose upwards, its eyes a vivid red as it chewed on the innards of the crab. Then it saw Heracles standing at the edge of the swamp and let the pieces of flesh fall from its jaws. It gave a call and the other heads lifted up and glared at him. Slowly, it began moving towards him.
Heracles turned and scanned the nearby waters. Seeing a faint gleam, he waded over and saw the sword half hidden beneath the slime. Plunging his hand into the water, he pulled the weapon out just in time to drive back a darting attack from one of the heads.
Another dropped on him from above. He leaped backwards and the muzzle hit the water where he had been standing. A sweep of his sword cut clean through its scaled neck before it could pull away. A torrent of green blood gushed out as the head splashed into the water, but now he had no torch with which to cauterize the wound. The tree was still ablaze, but the Hydra stood between him and the fire.
Then he saw Iolaus wading through the knee-deep waters, a flaming brand held before him. As the neck began to writhe with the emergence of the new head, he grabbed hold of its scales and thrust the makeshift torch into the exposed flesh. There was a look of vengeful triumph on Iolaus’s bloodied face as the wound sizzled and blackened. Then a shadow fell over him and he looked up to see another head descending on him, its jaws wide open and its curved teeth running with saliva.
But Heracles had already seen its approach. Leaping onto the lifeless skull of the first, he plunged the point of his sword into the gap behind the monster’s eye, piercing the brain. It crashed into the water at Iolaus’s feet, almost dousing the torch in his hand. Heracles severed the head with a single blow, and his nephew pressed the flames against the exposed stump.
‘You’re hurt,’ Heracles said, seeing the blood on his temple and his ashen complexion.
Iolaus shrugged.
‘A few cuts and bruises. That’s all.’
Heracles laid a hand on shoulder and smiled at him.
‘Thank you for coming back. There aren’t many men who would face a monster like that more than once. And I owe you my life.’
‘There’s still time to die yet,’ Iolaus replied, grimacing through his pain.
‘Not if you stay close to me,’ Heracles told him. ‘And remember to hold your breath when it attacks.’
He pulled the scarf over his mouth and nose and turned to face the Hydra. The creature had not moved. Its two remaining heads swayed from side to side, eyeing him with caution. Any other beast would have had enough and slunk back into its lair or fled into the swamp. But the Hydra had been born with one purpose – to wreak destruction on the world of mankind. It would fight to the last.
It blasted the air with a final cry, though the power of it was much reduced now, and both heads plunged towards Heracles. This time the attack was not preceded by a cloud of venomous breath. The weapon that it had used to such devastating effect against defenceless villagers and terrified warriors had only served to obscure its indomitable enemy, who had used it to his advantage by severing the heads as they sought him in the yellow mist. Instead, they came at him as fast as they could, one on either side, knowing that one or the other would sink its jaws into his flesh and bite the life out of him.
But they had overlooked Heracles’s younger companion, armed only with a length of burning wood. As the Hydra attacked Heracles from both sides, Iolaus ran into the path of the head swooping in from the left and thrust the brand into its face, forcing it aside. Meanwhile, Heracles turned to meet the other head, slicing the weapon across its mouth as it came towards him. The blade was sharp and the arm behind it powerful, smashing several teeth and half severing the lower jaw. But the momentum of its attack carried it forward, crashing into Heracles and bowling him over into the water. The shattered jaws snapped at his flesh, grazing his ribs and thigh as he turned away from the attack. But the sword was still in his hand, and twisting his body and thrusting upwards, he sent the point up through his attacker’s mouth and into its brain.
It collapsed onto his prostrate body, some of the blood from the wound splashing onto his lion’s cloak with a hiss. Heracles pushed the head away, then jumped to his feet and brought the sword down upon its neck, severing it cleanly. Iolaus ran to seal the wound, while Heracles strode forward to face the remaining head.
It bent low to face him, its red eyes filled with hatred. Then it lunged. Heracles gripped his sword in both hands and drove it into the monster’s forehead, penetrating flesh and bone. The head cried out in pain and anger, but did not crash into the water as the others had done. Instead, it raised itself up to its full height, dragging Heracles up with it.
He pulled himself onto its neck and pulled the sword free. The Hydra tried to throw him off, flinging its head violently from side to side, but he clung on grimly. Reaching forward, he seized hold of the monster’s slit-like nostrils and pulled himself upright. Then he twisted round and hacked at the length of neck behind him. The first blow penetrated the scales and sank halfway through the thick flesh. The Hydra released an almost pitiful cry, then whipped its head back and shook itself in a last effort to dislodge him. The force of the movement split the wound wide open, detaching the head and upper neck from the rest of the body. Heracles plummeted into the swamp below.
He was plunged into darkness, the water filling his eyes, mouth and nostrils and numbing his senses. Then he felt a hand take him by the wrist and pull him free. His vision was blurred by the water and his exposure to the Hydra’s breath, and as he leaned on his knees and coughed up the vile liquid, he felt the energy that had carried him through the fight drain from him.
Suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion, he glanced up at Iolaus – who was standing over him with the torch in his hand and a concerned look on his face – and then around at the aftermath of the battle. Pieces of the Hydra were everywhere. Its body lay on its side in the middle of the swamp, the lengths of its headless necks coiled together before it. A few paces away, the immortal head lay half submerged in the water, staring balefully at him.
He turned away from it. Feeling his stomach tighten suddenly, he doubled over and vomited into the swamp. Then he waded to the small hill where the monster had its lair, pulled himself up onto the grass and collapsed.
Chapter Eighteen
Revelation
Charis opened her eyes. The last torches had burned themselves out to leave the temple in darkness. Not even a splash of moonlight from the small high windows gave relief from the utter blackness. There was no sound either; not from the birds nesting in the rafters, nor from the sleeping city beyond the temple walls. Yet she sensed she was not alone.
Cautiously, she eased her blanket from her shoulder and sat up. The air was cold enough to bring out the gooseflesh on her bare arms, forcing her to reach for her black cloak – neatly folded on the chair beside her mattress – and pull it around her shoulders.
‘Who’s there?’ she said, her voice sounding small and flat in the large, empty space. ‘Who’s there?’ she repeated, more loudly this time.
Her words rang back from the stone walls, making her feel suddenly exposed and vulnerable.
‘I am here.’
The response was calm and unforced, but carried effortlessly to the four corners of the temple. Charis looked around her, unable to discern where it had come from.
‘Welcome, friend,’ she replied, pushing herself to her feet. ‘If you’ve come to bring an offering to the goddess, then come forward and make yourself known. Just let me light a fresh torch.’
The voice laughed gently, though the sound of it was neither comforting nor joyful. Rather, there was a hint of mockery in its tone.
‘Don’t trouble yourself.’
The blackened torches that hung on the temple’s many columns sprang to
life with a rush of flame. Charis gasped and stepped back, blinking against the sudden light while she tried to locate the owner of the voice in the shadows. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed a tall figure at the far end of the temple, standing before the double doors. Her features were shrouded by darkness, but she was tall and wore a dress that flowed down to cover her feet.
‘Who are you?’ Charis asked.
‘Do you really have to ask, Charis? You’ve served me since you were a little girl, when your mother sold you to the temple for a bowl of stew and a mouthful of wine.’
Her tone was aloof, like a mistress returning to her home after a long absence. And her words did not make sense. Charis advanced a few paces across the cold stone floor, hoping to get a better look at the strange visitor.
‘The priestess I served died ten years ago,’ she said. ‘And you are not King Eurystheus.’
‘I am no king, but I am a queen. A dread queen, more powerful than a king of Tiryns, or any other earthly city. A queen honoured by women and feared by men. Do you know me now, Charis?’
As she spoke, her voice grew in authority and volume until it filled the whole temple. At the same time, a strange luminescence appeared around her. It was a faint glow at first, cold and tinged with a purple hue; but as the power of her voice increased, so did the strength of the light, until Charis realized it was emanating from within her. It shone through the bared skin of her arms and hands, becoming so intense that the bones of her fingers showed black beneath the flesh. Her face, too, was illuminated. Terrified, Charis glanced at the beautiful but stern features, then threw herself down on the floor and covered her head with her arms.
Even there, lying on the cold flagstones, she could feel the temple shaking beneath and around her. The air became hot and her ears were filled with a deafening hum as the transformation continued. Fearing the columns would collapse and the roof would come crashing down on her, she cried out for mercy. The furious maelstrom ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
‘My lady, forgive me,’ she whispered.
She heard the scuff of sandalled feet crossing the temple floor towards her.
‘Stand, my child.’
Not daring to look up, but too afraid to disobey, Charis pushed herself to her feet and – keeping her head bowed – stared down at the hem of the goddess’s dress. The material was a rich purple – smooth and heavy, the folds flowing in liquid-like movements – and decorated with many eyes, small and large, with great black pupils lined with hoops of blue and mauve.
‘Look at me,’ Hera commanded.
She reached out and placed her fingertips beneath Charis’s chin, tilting her head upwards. The priestess found herself looking into the face of a woman a few years younger than herself and beautiful beyond the power of her mind to comprehend, but with eyes that knew everything about her: everything she had ever done or said, every guilty thought, every crushed hope and frustrated emotion. Her intense, penetrating gaze seemed to molest her mind, searching out the faults in her character and looking behind each hidden fold of her memory, until she could bear no more. But the goddess’s hold on her chin prevented her from turning her face away, forcing her to endure her gaze as it stripped her bare. Only as she began to fear for her sanity was the fierce grip released. Charis closed her eyes and let her chin drop to her chest.
‘Good, Charis. You have nothing to hide from me. Your loyalty is plain to see.’
She reached out and stroked the side of Charis’s head – a gesture only, devoid of real affection. Then she turned and walked to one of the walls of the temple. Daring to lift her head a little, Charis watched the goddess from the corner of her eye as she folded her hands behind the small of her back and looked up at the painted murals.
‘Ah, Argus,’ she said, looking at the painted figure of a man with eyes on every part of his naked body. He was standing by a tree, to which was tied a white heifer. ‘A faithful servant, deceived and murdered on the orders of my beloved husband. But the paint is fading and stained with smoke, and the plaster is peeling.’ She reached out and picked a piece off with her fingernail, then looked over her shoulder at Charis. ‘Why have the murals in my temple been allowed to fall into such a state? Tell Eurystheus to have them cleaned and repainted at once. He will do as you tell him.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Hera raised her hand and shook her head.
‘No, leave them. I want new murals depicting the death of Heracles.’
‘Then he failed the third task!’
Hera turned to look at her priestess. Her face was without emotion, but her hands were clenched into fists at her side.
‘No. He succeeded in slaying the Hydra.’
Charis felt an unexpected rush of elation at the news. Lowering her head so that the Queen of Olympus would not read the emotion in her face, she wondered at her reaction and where it had come from.
‘His madness should have been the end of him,’ Hera continued, her tone hardening. ‘A man who kills his own children should be executed! But Creon didn’t have the nerve to do it; they were his grandchildren, but he let Zeus’s bastard get away with murdering them! And now Zeus has given him a chance to redeem himself.’
‘There will be other tasks, my lady.’
Hera raised her face to the high ceiling and let out a cry of anguish. The flames of the torches roared upwards in response, filling the temple with a blaze of orange light. The goddess turned and struck the wall with the heel of her fist. There was a loud crack and black lines spread through the plaster, which fell away in large flakes, taking the mural of Argus with it. The flames died down again and the shadows crept back into the temple.
‘Yes, there will be more labours, harder labours that courage and strength alone can’t overcome,’ she said. ‘And soon, the death of that bastard will be painted on every temple raised in my honour – a testimony that I will not allow myself to be disdained. Until then, you will say nothing to Eurystheus about the Hydra. Even now, Heracles is returning to Tiryns with the head of the beast as proof of his victory. But when he presents himself before the king, you are to challenge his account.’
‘But if he killed the monster, what can—?’
‘Where does your loyalty lie, Charis?’
The priestess hung her head again.
‘With you, Mistress.’
‘Then you will not want me to lose face or be cheated.’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
The goddess placed a hand on her priestess’s shoulder and told her what she had to say. And then the torches went out and the temple was plunged into darkness. Charis fell into a deep sleep, not stirring until she sensed a faint light on her eyelids. Opening them, she looked up at the ceiling. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the shadows from windows high up on the walls. She looked around her, realizing she had slept long past dawn. Then, with a sense of shock, she remembered the mural that Hera had destroyed. But when she glanced across at the wall, the painting of Argus and the tethered white heifer was still there, as smoke-stained and faded as she had always remembered it.
* * *
Tiryns held the answer.
The chariot trundled up the road that led to the city gates. The sun had set and the eastern sky was already growing dark, though in the west layers of orange and pink were still resisting the onset of evening. Someone must have been looking out for Heracles’s return, for there were no crowds on the streets, only lines of spearmen. Here and there he saw sackcloth hangings twitched aside from windows, and faces peering out as he passed. But Eurystheus’s guards had made sure there would be no third show of support for his cousin if he returned victorious from his quest.
Iolaus had the reins, and though he glanced at the soldiers and the cautious faces at the doors and windows of the hovels, he chose to keep his thoughts to himself. Heracles was glad of his company. He had conquered his fear to follow Heracles to the monster’s lair and fight at his side – loyalty like that was a precious thing. Ye
t Heracles had not missed the looks his young squire had given him when he thought he had not been paying attention; looks that showed his misgivings over the murder of his cousins, and revealed the struggle that was still going on inside. And now a new test was approaching.
‘Your father asked me to speak with you,’ Heracles said.
Iolaus did not take his eyes from the road ahead, though his expression hardened.
‘About what?’
‘He said he was sorry he drove you away. He blamed you for your mother’s death and he let it come between the love he should have felt for you. But he wants you to know that he has changed. He never stopped loving you, and he wants you back, Iolaus.’
‘Never stopped loving me? I don’t think he ever started.’
‘For what it’s worth, I believe he does love you. You’re the only family he has left, and it’s not easy to lose a son.’
Iolaus gave him a sidelong glance.
‘Then do you think I should return to him?’ he asked.
‘I would miss your help. You showed true courage in the Lernean Swamp, and I couldn’t have succeeded without you. But there are seven more labours to complete and I doubt I will survive even the first of them, so I can’t ask you to follow me into such danger. And as for your father, you’re a man now – you proved that against the Hydra – so you will have to make your own choice.’
They reached the city walls and the horses halted while a pair of soldiers opened the gates. A flick of the reins sent them forward again, the clatter of their hooves echoing back from the stonework as they passed through. Just like the slums outside the walls, the streets of the lower city had been emptied of people and were instead lined with soldiers.
‘Is it always like this?’ Iolaus asked.
‘My cousin’s afraid the people like me more than they do him. The truth is, they’d probably prefer the Hydra to Eurystheus.’