The Twelve Labours of Hercules

by Joe Corcoran

In a cloud they appeared, only to be met by a hail of arrows from Hercules and his men. These men had been selected as the best archers in the palace guard, and now they showed their skill. They themselves moved with a rhythm that was almost mechanical, plucking arrows from the ground and launching them at the startled birds. True, some arrows bounced off the armoured skin, and some birds escaped, flying out over the sea, but many were skewered and fell to earth, their bodies disappearing into the swamp below. Finally it was over. Every archer had exhausted his supply of arrows, and the last of the birds were disappearing, with all the speed they could muster, over the horizon. The soldiers then regrouped, as had been agreed, to make camp for the night.

  “Those things will remember this place, and this kingdom,” said Hercules grimly, as he sat with Iolaus round one of the camp fires, cooking their evening meal, “I don’t think that they will ever dare to return. I feel now that I have played a worthy part in this challenge.”

  “But, Hercules,” answered Iolaus, cautiously, “do you not think Zeus will be angry with you for using your weapons again? Shouldn’t we just have let the birds fly away and make their home somewhere else?”

  “You say ‘birds’,” growled Hercules, “but they are not anything of the sort. I have harmed no living thing today, just evil machines that would have caused great suffering wherever they went.” He paused, then went on in a gentler voice, “No, I do not fear the anger of Zeus. He too understands that not every challenge can be overcome by quick thinking and clever words.” Iolaus felt a little insulted by this, although he didn’t think that Hercules had meant it that way, but instead of arguing he gazed thoughtfully into the fire as he ate his food. Part of him agreed with Hercules, you could not solve every challenge in the world in a peaceful way. Not every challenge … just most of them.

  The Seventh Challenge: The Cretan Bull

  When the victorious troops arrived back at the city, they were in fine spirits. However, they were no longer in fine military order. They were all tired, some were still caked with mud from the swamp and many carried bits of metal bird as trophies or souvenirs. They entered the city in a long ragged line, laughing and talking of what they had planned for their next day off, but the holiday mood changed as they approached the palace. Standing by the gates, watching them approach with looks of undisguised loathing, was a group of three strange and fearsome warriors. They carried spears that glittered in the evening sunlight, and they wore elaborate armour, decorated with gold and silver. Except for their eyes, which constantly scanned the crowd of soldiers as if trying to pick out the very scruffiest, they did not move and stood ramrod straight. On each of their shields was a picture of a double headed axe, and this told the captain of the guard all he needed to know.

  “What’s the meaning of this,” he shouted, forcing his way through the gathering ranks of his men to stand in front of the three strangers, “since when did the palace of Pittheus require a guard from Crete. Where are the men of our own land?” The three warriors said nothing, staring ahead with their jaws locked firmly closed.

  “We’re here, sir!” shouted a voice from above. The captain looked up, to see two of his own men peering down at him from the top of the palace wall. As he watched he saw more men emerging from behind the parapet, each one carrying a bow in one hand and a woven shield in the other. “The high ground seemed best, in case those birds decided to make another visit,” continued the soldier on the wall, “but our new friends here were too proud to join us. They decided to stand very still, in the open, like great big shiny targets.”

  “The ambassador of Crete is inside,” rumbled one of the warriors, finally breaking his silence, “we will protect the gate until he is ready to leave.”

  “Your choice,” murmured the captain, “just watch out for any deadly, mechanical, armoured birds. We think about a hundred of them got away.”

  And with this he called the rest of his men to enter the palace. The Cretan warriors clearly did not believe him at first, then they saw the bits and bodies that each of the men carried as they filed past and through the gate. By the time Hercules and Iolaus came through, bringing up the rear, the three were scanning the skies nervously and keeping their backs close to the stone wall.

  “An ambassador from the island kingdom of Crete,” said Iolaus, once they were into the palace, “maybe we should head for the throne room, this could be our next challenge.”

  Hercules agreed, and they left the soldiers behind, although the captain’s angry shouts could still be heard echoing through the courtyards.

  “I want every man cleaned up and ready for inspection. I want patrols on the streets to reassure the people. Tell those fools on the wall that the birds have gone. I want those salt slurpers to see what a real modern army looks like!”

  Catching this last sentence, Iolaus shot a questioning glance at Hercules. The young man was clever enough, but he had not travelled so far as his friend, or lived as long, and he had never heard of ‘salt slurpers’ before.

  “Crete is an island kingdom,” Hercules explained, “and they rule a large area because they are good sailors and build fine ships. No-one can match them at sea. The rumour is that they spend so much time at sea that they have learnt how to drink sea water.”

  “But drinking sea water sends you mad!” burst out Iolaus.

  “Well, some say that the Cretans have found the secret of drinking sea water and not going mad, so they call them ‘salt slurpers’,” finished Hercules.

  “And what do the others say?” asked Iolaus, sensing that the story wasn’t finished.

  “The others say that there is no secret and the sea water does send the Cretans mad, but, as they’re all mad to begin with, there’s no way to tell the difference!”

  Hercules let out a huge booming laugh, just as they were entering the throne room. He cut it short as he took in the scene of stately elegance that met his eyes, but still the echoes rumbled round the large room.

  Three pairs of eyes now studied Hercules, each showing a little of the thoughts of the person observing. One pair of eyes belonged to Pittheus, who was sat at one end of a table set for a banquet. He was dressed in his usual robes, which suddenly looked plain and rough in comparison to the man sitting opposite him. Pittheus’ eyes showed pleasure at seeing the two friends, and also some regret at having to confront them with such as welcome as this. The second pair of eyes belonged to the Cretan ambassador, a man who represented Minos, the king of Crete. He was dressed in such rich and ornate robes that you would think he were the king and Pittheus was simply a poor guest, for some reason being honoured by dinner with his ruler. The ambassador’s eyes showed nothing but scorn and disappointment at the disgraceful appearance and rowdy behaviour of the two newcomers. The final pair of eyes belonged to a man who stood beside the ambassador. His eyes were blank as he looked at the pair, as though he were not even allowed to have thoughts of his own. Nevertheless, he continued to observe Iolaus and Hercules, even as he replenished the ambassador’s plate, cut up his food and refilled his wine goblet.

  “Hercules! Iolaus!” called Pittheus, once the echoes of laughter had died down, “You must be tired after your latest challenge. Please, sit with us and take some refreshment. I trust you were successful?” Hercules merely nodded in answer to this question, but Iolaus gave a short report of their latest adventures, which left the ambassador looking like he didn’t believe a word of what was said. With the formalities completed, Hercules and Iolaus took their own seats at the table. Hercules heaped his plate, filled his glass, drained it and filled it again, before beginning to eat noisily, chewing with his mouth open and showing a simple pleasure in the good, plentiful food. Iolaus had to kick him under the table to get his attention and, looking up, Hercules finally noticed that everyone else was staring at him - Pittheus with a look of mild upset, the ambassador with a look of utter horror. Trying to recover the situation, Hercules closed his mouth, thought furiously and, with a sudden burst of creativity, grabbe
d his glass and raised it in a toast.

  “I would like to raise a toast to … to …,” Hercules struggled to remember the correct way to address an ambassador.

  “Your Excellency!” hissed Iolaus, under his breath.

  “I would like to raise a toast to Your Excellency,” began Hercules again, “I would beg your forgiveness for my rustic ways and would wish you every happiness in your visit to Troezen.” Then, thinking the toast not quite complete, he added, rather weakly, “The baths are excellent!”

  Although not a polished or refined performance, this show of welcome and respect seemed to mend some of the harm done by Hercules’ previous behaviour. Nevertheless, Pittheus thought it high time to step in and take some control of proceedings.

  “His Excellency has not made a long journey, and taken time from his other important affairs, simply in order to enjoy a visit to our poor and simple city,” the king explained, “he has come on important business, as a representative of King Minos himself, and this business involves you, Hercules. Your Excellency,” he continued, turning his attention to the ambassador, “might I prevail upon you to explain?”

  Hercules didn’t understand this last sentence, but it