Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  Hero of Olympus

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Glossary

  Author's Note

  Praise for Glyn Iliffe

  About the author

  Also by Glyn Iliffe

  Copyright

  Hero of Olympus

  Glyn Iliffe

  FOR MARK PRATT

  Prologue

  ODYSSEUS

  King Odysseus looked round at the great hall he had fought so long and hard to return to. A fire blazed in the hearth, sending up a thin column of smoke to the vent in the ceiling. Beyond the four wooden pillars that supported the roof were several tables, heavily laden with food and drink that was constantly replenished by the numerous slaves of his household. Scores of young nobles sat on long benches, laughing and singing as they drank the wine from his cellars and ate the mutton and beef from his herds. Ten years before, an earlier generation of rich men’s sons had come uninvited to his palace and helped themselves to his possessions. He had slaughtered them to a man.

  He lifted his gaze to the murals on the walls. They were barely discernible in the shadows, but he knew them well enough. The newest – spread across the whole of the east wall – celebrated the victory of the Greeks over the Trojans, the centrepiece of which was the Wooden Horse, the ruse that had sprung from his fertile mind like Athena from the head of Zeus. He had spent many a night looking at the slightly comical figures of armed men storming through the burning ruins of Troy, remembering the awfulness of that night and the long years of siege that had preceded it. But this evening his gaze was drawn to a different mural.

  The painting on the north wall was from before his father’s reign. The colours had faded and the images were veiled by years of grime and smoke, but the war between the Olympians and the Giants was still recognizable. Huge figures hurled thunderbolts and boulders at each other, or grappled face to scowling face like wrestlers. It was a battle between good and evil, rule and misrule, divine law and worldly anarchy. The gods were easily identified, as were the Giants, to those who knew them; but at the centre of the fight was a figure recognized by anyone who cared to stop and look. He had inhabited the borders between order and chaos, and known both mortality and immortality. He had saved humanity from the destructive power of the Giants, only to leave it under the indifferent custody of the gods. His name was Heracles.

  Odysseus’s gaze wandered again, this time falling on a man seated against one of the pillars. His stomach bulged over his belt, and in his lap was a tortoiseshell lyre. Though several years younger than the king, he was balding on top and the thin hair that remained to him was already turning grey. His eyes were half closed and looked shrivelled as he appeared to glance around himself. But he had lost his sight many years ago, and the slow, curious movements of his head were led by his nose and ears, as he read the smells in the great hall and deciphered the sounds that filled it.

  The man’s name was Omeros. He had fought in the ranks of the Ithacan army at Troy, losing his sight on the return voyage. Now he served his king by singing songs about the great events of history: the wars and the romances; the crimes of men and the retribution of the gods; the tragedies and comedies of human existence. And for the previous two nights he had stilled the hall with a new song. Before the Trojan War, it had been the greatest story ever told, about the greatest hero ever to have lived; about the man in the mural – Heracles.

  But Omeros was no mean peddler of songs. Whereas other bards thrilled their audiences with tales of Heracles’s amazing strength and courage, Omeros sang about a man who had killed his own children in a fit of madness, losing his wife’s love and destroying his reputation in a single night of mindless destruction. He sang, too, of the guilt that had driven him to seek absolution – only to be told by the gods that he must become a slave to his hated cousin, Eurystheus, for whom he had to complete ten impossible labours. In many ways, Heracles’s life resonated with Odysseus’s own, and the thought of hearing the final chapter of his story filled him with excitement and dread.

  He looked aside at Eperitus, who had served beside him through the long years of the war. He was laughing at something his wife was telling him, happy at last after all he had endured. Then the king turned his head to look at the woman seated beside himself, the woman he had won a war for and sailed ten years to return to. Penelope was absorbed in conversation with Telemachus, their only son, oblivious to her husband’s gaze. But as he looked at them, he counted himself blessed. For all his hardships, he had not suffered as Heracles had done. He had not lost his family.

  He reached out and laid his hand on hers. She turned and smiled at him, as beautiful as that day he had first set eyes on her. Seeing his expression, her brow furrowed with concern.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘It’s just—’

  Omeros drew his fingers across the strings of his lyre. At once, the conversation in the crowded hall stuttered to a halt and fell silent. The king squeezed his wife’s hand and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Sing, Muse, of that mighty son of Zeus, illustrious Heracles, and of the remaining labours that stood between him and his freedom.’

  The bard’s voice was gentle and alluring, clear enough to be heard in the shadows at the back of the hall, and yet low enough to still every other sound, lest a single word of his song be lost. Odysseus felt himself drawn slowly forward on his chair as, with one gentle verse after another, the story of Heracles’s quest to find release from his crimes unfolded before him. Again he shared the pain of a man who, like himself, had been forced to defeat monsters, outwit immortals and, ultimately, face the fires of Hades before he could be whole again.

  ‘Heracles stood before the battlements of Eurystheus’s palace, awaiting his next labour,’ Omeros said. ‘What new monster had Hera sent to kill him? What impossible feat had she devised to destroy Zeus’s bastard son? With what new torment would she seek revenge on her faithless husband?

  ‘Such thoughts no longer troubled Heracles. Not since the revelation that Copreus had induced the madness that had led him to murder his children. But Eurystheus’s herald was no fool. He knew Heracles would kill him for the deaths of his sons. So he had kidnapped Megara, Heracles’s estranged wife, and given her to the Amazons, instructing them to kill her if he should die. It was the only way to guarantee his safety from the wrath of Heracles.

  ‘Or so he thought.’

  Chapter One

  THE NINTH LABOUR

  Heracles stood before the high battlements that separated the citadel of Tiryns from the palace of the king. The head of the Nemean Lion sat atop his forehead like a helmet, casting its shadow over his stern features. Its tangled mane flowed to his shoulders and its black hide hung down his back to his ankles, making him look even more massive than he already was. His broad chest rose and fell slowly and his muscular arms hung still at his sides, the balled fists the only sign of the tension within.

  Birds were singing in the trees beyond the city walls and the first light of dawn had crept into the heavens, forcing back the darkness and extinguishing all but the brightest stars. His escort fidgeted nervously as they waited for the arrival of Eurystheus and his advisers. And despite their numbers –
a dozen archers and twice as many spearmen – they had every reason to be uneasy. Heracles was a full head taller than any of his guards, and had more strength in his enormous frame than all of them put together. What was more, he was itching for a fight.

  Iolaus stood beside him with his hands behind his back, the slow tapping of his foot the only sign of the impatience that was eating at him. He threw an occasional sidelong glance at his uncle, but Heracles said nothing. He was used to being summoned by Eurystheus and left to wait. It was the king’s way of reminding him that he was his slave, by order of the gods themselves. Yet his patience was stretching thinner and thinner, and if he was ignored for much longer, he knew the desire to find a target for his smouldering fury would overwhelm him.

  At last, the tension was relieved by the sound of voices. Heracles raised his eyes to the ramparts, where slaves were slotting torches into the iron brackets in the walls. Moments later, he heard footsteps and the swish of heavy robes dragging over stone. Eurystheus’s fleshy face, with its bulbous eyes and dribbling lips, appeared at one of the crenellations. He attempted to hide his fear behind an imperious glare, which fooled no one.

  Iphicles – Heracles’s brother and Iolaus’s father – stood beside the king, whom he served as a counsellor. His aloof expression masked the emotions that must have been churning inside him as he stared down at the elder brother he had hated for so long. Yet three days ago he had sought Heracles out to express his regret for the animosity he had harboured against him all their lives. He had seen for himself how Heracles’s sufferings had changed him, making him less arrogant and more compassionate – a man worthy of his respect. And as the blinding fog of Iphicles’s jealous hatred had dissipated, he had also come to realize that Heracles had not stolen his son from him, but that Iolaus had been driven away by his own selfishness. It was a bitter truth to swallow, but one that he intended to deal with. As their eyes met, Iphicles nodded discreetly, a sign that he still intended to fulfil his promise.

  At Eurystheus’s other shoulder were Tydeus, the captain of the royal guard, and Charis, the high priestess of Hera. Tydeus stared hard at Heracles from beneath the rim of his black-plumed helmet, while Charis seemed to be avoiding his gaze altogether. Had the goddess visited her in another dream, Heracles wondered, revealing the next of the labours that he was to perform? Yet this did not feel like the other times he had been summoned to hear his newest task. Eurystheus lacked his usual gloating pleasure at being able to send his cousin on a task from which he did not expect him to return, while Tydeus seemed ready to explode with rage.

  Then a fifth figure appeared, making Heracles forget all the others. Copreus wore a black cloak with a thick fur collar that almost swallowed his neck, making him seem shorter than he actually was. He held his herald’s staff in his maimed right hand, the gap where the third finger should have been obvious as he gripped the polished wood. His grizzled hair was held back by the bandage around his forehead, revealing the face that Heracles had come to loathe with a burning intensity.

  Other marks from Heracles’s attack were still visible: a swollen cheek, bruising beneath both eyes, and a cut on his lower lip. Copreus had been moments from death when he revealed that Megara was being held hostage, and that she would die if any harm came to him.

  ‘Did he offer you any resistance?’ Eurystheus said, addressing the officer in charge of the escort.

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here if I had,’ Heracles said, his tone taut with menace.

  ‘I did not give you permission to speak!’ Eurystheus shot back. ‘You forget you are a slave, Heracles, and that I am your king. Consider yourself fortunate I didn’t have my men drag you here in chains. I haven’t forgotten you tried to kill me.’

  ‘I threw the spear at the wall!’

  ‘And three days ago, you tried to murder Copreus!’ Eurystheus retorted. ‘You are too much of a risk, Heracles. Not only have you threatened my life and that of my herald, you’ve fought my soldiers on more than one occasion. And now, it seems, you are fomenting rebellion.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it? Do you deny you’ve been currying favour with the scum of this city? Repairing their pathetic dwellings, building a duct to bring them fresh water, feeding their old and widowed with food stolen from farms—’

  ‘I stole nothing.’

  ‘Silence before the king!’ Tydeus roared.

  ‘All to win them over to your cause,’ Eurystheus continued. ‘A cause you’ve gnawed at since childhood – to steal my throne. Iphicles told me the tales your mother used to spin, that Hera stopped up her womb so that I would be born first and inherit what should have been yours. All lies!’

  Heracles moved towards the battlements, as if ready to scale them and throw his cousin from the ramparts. Bows creaked behind him, and he heard the rattle of shields and spears being readied. Then he felt a hand on his wrist.

  ‘Heracles has no designs on the throne,’ Iolaus said, turning his eyes on Iphicles. ‘You know that, Father. All he wants is his life back. Freedom from slavery and freedom from his guilt.’

  ‘Tell that to the people of the outer city,’ Tydeus said. ‘Only last night, two of my men were murdered while they patrolled the streets. Before he arrived, they respected the rule of law. Now they’re restless, ready to throw the city into anarchy because of your uncle.’

  ‘Is it any surprise?’ Heracles said. ‘They’ve lived too long in fear: fear of heavy-handed men like you, following the orders of a weak king. A king who despises the people under his rule and treats them like animals.’

  ‘What do you know of being a king?’ Eurystheus asked. ‘Nothing! You are a slave, and like a slave, you will do as you are ordered. Tell the rabble you’ve stirred up that I will not tolerate rebellion. For every guard of mine they kill, I will take ten of them from the slums and put them to death. Do you understand?’

  Heracles stared up at his cousin and felt nothing but loathing. He had not spoken a word about revolt to those he had helped. Rather, he had seen people in desperate need, despised by the wealthy and forgotten by the gods; people whose suffering he had come to understand, and could do something to ease. He had never known poverty, hunger, weakness or fear himself, but he had endured enough misery of his own to empathize with those who had. Yet he could not allow them to rise up against their masters, only to be slaughtered in droves by well-trained and heavily armed soldiers.

  ‘I will speak to them, if they’ll listen.’

  ‘Some sense, at last,’ said Iphicles, moving to the ramparts and staring down at his brother. ‘Or that’s what he would have you believe, my lord. But if you’ll listen to me, Heracles shouldn’t be trusted to speak to the people at all. If he’s been inciting them against you, then letting him return to the outer city will only encourage him to accelerate his plans for an uprising. Better he leave Tiryns at once, sent to a place where he can’t cause you any more trouble – to his next labour.’

  ‘His next labour?’ Eurystheus asked. ‘I don’t even know what the next labour will be.’

  He looked expectantly at Charis, but the priestess refused to meet his gaze.

  ‘A labour so difficult that Heracles will not return from it victorious,’ Iphicles continued, signalling to a nearby servant, who nodded and ran back towards the palace. ‘If he returns at all.’

  What was his brother up to, Heracles wondered? Then he heard a door slam, followed by the sound of footsteps running across flagstones.

  ‘Daddy!’

  ‘Admete, my child,’ Eurystheus said, opening his arms to embrace his daughter.

  ‘Will you do it? Will you send Heracles to fetch me the golden belt? You simply must say yes!’

  Heracles looked up at the squealing girl on the battlements – the image of her father, with thick lips and bulging eyes. She was squeezing him tightly in a show of affection that would have embarrassed any man of rank except Eurystheus, who doted on his only daughter.

/>   ‘What golden belt, my love? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The golden belt of Hippolyte, Queen of the Amazons,’ Iphicles said.

  ‘It was given to her by Ares,’ Admete added. ‘Iphicles says whoever wears the belt becomes invincible in battle. You have to say yes, Daddy. I want that belt!’

  ‘No!’ Copreus announced, stumping forward with his staff to face the king. ‘No, my lord. This is foolish in the extreme.’

  Eurystheus looked slowly from Admete to Iphicles, and then to his herald.

  ‘Why is it foolish?’ he asked. ‘If I understand correctly, Iphicles wants me to send Heracles several days’ voyage north to Themiscyra, to fight an army of Amazons and take their queen’s most powerful heirloom. These women may be aberrations of nature, but it’s said they can outride and outshoot anyone, and that a single Amazon is worth three men in battle. By all the gods, Iphicles may have found the answer to our problem!’

  He looked at his herald, a smile spreading across his face as he realized the difficulty of the labour Iphicles was proposing. The same thought was crossing Heracles’s mind, though it brought him less joy. When Iphicles had reconciled his differences with his brother and agreed to help him save Megara from the Amazons – hoping Iolaus might see him in a kinder light – he had warned him that his plan would be dangerous and offer little chance of survival. Now Heracles realized just how difficult it would be. Yet there was no other way to rescue the woman he still loved and free himself to avenge the deaths of their sons.

  ‘But that is exactly the problem, my lord,’ Copreus replied. ‘The gods. Every other labour has been decided by Hera. Will you risk inciting her wrath just to satisfy your daughter’s whims?’

  If the herald had not already guessed what was behind Iphicles’s suggestion, then he knew that, in Themiscyra, Heracles would learn of Megara’s imprisonment there and do everything in his power to release her. His words left Eurystheus uncertain.