Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  ‘Slaves don’t wear belts,’ Calus said.

  ‘Who will see in the dark? Come on, let’s leave before anyone comes to check on us.’

  ‘One last thing – you’ll have to limp. No need to overdo it, but enough for them to notice.’

  Calus gave him a last glance, then opened the door and peered out into the passageway. When he was certain there was no sound of guards, he beckoned for Iolaus to follow and slipped out.

  The stone floor was cold beneath Iolaus’s bare feet and the air circulating through the passages was fresh on his skin. He watched Calus’s shadowy form a few paces ahead of him and tried to emulate his shuffling gait. He went a different way to the one they had arrived by, and soon they were at the top of a broad flight of steps. There were guards talking in the gloom below. Iolaus reached round beneath his cloak and felt the reassuring presence of the dagger beside his satchel.

  ‘Keep your head down and don’t say a word,’ Calus whispered.

  They descended the steps and passed between the Amazons, who barely gave them a glance. The corridors were broader in this part of the palace, and there were torches at regular intervals now as they limped past open doorways. Iolaus glimpsed mattresses in the rooms, and female figures seated at tables or standing, their conversations loud and animated. But he did no more than look at them from the corner of his eye as he passed, not wanting to attract attention. He felt certain he would see more than enough of them before the night was out.

  Another slave left a room slightly ahead of them, carrying a tray with some leftover crusts and an empty cup. Calus made a hissing noise to attract his attention. He looked nervously behind himself, but at the sight of Calus his expression changed to one of annoyance. Calus laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something. The man shrugged away his touch and gave him the tray, before limping off down a side passage.

  Iolaus opened his mouth to speak, but Calus placed his finger to his lips.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said.

  He continued at a fair pace, despite his limp, and Iolaus struggled to keep up. His thoughts now fell to Megara. What had Calus meant when he said the Amazons had mistreated her? The thought of those unnatural harpies tormenting her made him clench his fists in anger. Yet he silently thanked the gods for leading him to her, and asked their protection over him as he tried to free her. He prayed for Heracles, too, promising Zeus the sacrifice of a lamb if he brought them all safely back to Tiryns.

  They turned another corner and saw an Amazon with a spear and shield, standing beside a door at the far end. Calus paused to gather himself, then hobbled up to the guard with the tray held before him.

  ‘Food for the prisoner.’

  ‘It’s early this evening, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m just doing as I’m told, mistress.’

  ‘What about him? It doesn’t need two of you to feed her.’

  ‘He’s her entertainment. You know,’ Calus said, making a gesture with his finger.

  The guard smiled and looked Iolaus up and down.

  ‘If he has more success than you did, come and fetch me. I’d like to see it. And if she’s still not interested, then I’ll take him for myself.’

  She opened the door and Iolaus followed Calus through into a short passage. A narrow flight of steps led down to a square, low-ceilinged chamber, lit by a stubby torch in one corner. As his eyes adjusted to the murk, he saw four doors – two in the wall opposite and two more in the wall to his left.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Another Amazon sat on a stool to his right, leaning her shoulders against the wall. A drawn sword lay on a table beside her, and next to it was a wooden cup. Iolaus could smell the wine and see by her heavily lidded eyes that she had drunk too much.

  Calus pointed to the scraps on the tray.

  ‘Food for the prisoner.’

  ‘Leave it here. I’ll give it to the bitch.’

  Iolaus clenched his teeth and glared at the guard. Catching his stare, she pushed herself from the wall and thumped her fist on the table.

  ‘Look at me like that again and I’ll beat the insolence out of you, d’you hear?’

  At that moment, Calus stumbled forward with the tray, throwing the crusts of bread and the dregs in the cup over the guard. She leaped to her feet, her hands thrown wide in disbelief.

  ‘I’m so sorry, mistress,’ he mumbled. ‘Let me clean it up.’

  Slipping a hand beneath the back of his cloak, Iolaus pulled his dagger from its sheath and jumped at the guard. She glanced up in indignant fury, just as he brought the handle down on her skull. Her eyes rolled shut and she fell from her chair to lie in a heap on the floor.

  Calus looked up at him, the fear clear in his expression.

  ‘Which one is it?’ Iolaus demanded, dashing towards the cell doors.

  ‘That one, in the corner.’

  He plucked the torch from its bracket. Then, lifting the bar from the door, he stepped inside. The cell was surprisingly large, and the sputtering flames struggled to throw back the thick darkness, leaving the corners in shadow. It smelled of damp earth, urine and stale sweat. Then he saw her, a pale figure crouched against the far wall, her arm held across her face. She was barefoot, with bedraggled hair and dressed in rags. Yet he knew it was her. His heart leaped with momentary joy, only to sink in his chest again at the torment she must have suffered.

  ‘Megara,’ he said. ‘Megara, it’s me.’

  She stirred and raised her arm a little, squinting from beneath it at the light of the torch.

  ‘Iolaus? But how—?’

  ‘I’ve come to free you. Heracles is with me.’

  ‘Heracles?’ she said, dropping her arm and using the wall to pull herself to her feet. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He… he’s gone to find something. I’ll explain later. I—’

  She turned to face him and for the first time he saw that her dress had been torn to the waist, leaving her breasts uncovered. Despite the danger surrounding them and the ordeal she had been through, for a moment all he could think of was the sight of her body and the shameful stirrings it provoked in him. She saw the look in his eyes, and though she must have guessed at his thoughts, she did not cover herself, but let her gaze drop to his own nakedness. Then the moment was gone, swept away by the knowledge that such thoughts were not for them. She passed her arm across her breasts and turned her head aside.

  ‘Have they made you one of their slaves?’

  ‘Here,’ he said, unfastening his cloak and pushing it into her hand.

  She threw it round her shoulders, while he laid the torch on the floor and undid his belt. Taking his tunic out of the satchel, he pulled it over himself and refastened the belt.

  ‘It was a disguise,’ he said. ‘I came here with a man named Calus—’

  ‘Calus? He helped you? Then we must bring him back with us to Greece.’

  ‘We will – assuming we can get out of here. But we must go now.’

  She looked at him, their nakedness now hidden, and smiled. Then she walked forward and embraced him, holding him tightly. Slowly – painfully aware of his earlier reaction – he placed his arms around her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Reluctantly, he pulled away. Picking up the torch, he took her hand and led her from the cell. Calus stepped forward and bowed before her, taking her other hand and kissing it.

  Then they heard the sound of running feet and the clank of weapons. Voices shouted orders, and the door at the top of the steps was thrown open. Iolaus snatched the sword from the table, and as the first Amazons poured into the room, grabbed hold of Calus.

  ‘Wait for us by the breach in the walls,’ he whispered, as he held the sword to the slave’s throat.

  * * *

  Heracles followed Althaia through the narrow corridors, the orange light of her torch playing on the rough stone walls on either side and throwing back the shadows before them. The two guards stayed close behind him, their spears held at the read
y. That his escorts were unhappy to be delivering him into their queen’s presence was clear by their cold silence. They did not trust him. The only reason he had not been killed already was because Hippolyte wanted his seed inside her in the hope of a daughter – an heir to her throne who would be tall and strong, and be able to boast that Zeus’s blood ran in her veins. After the act was over, she would try to kill him. He expected that.

  But his thoughts were less on what lay ahead than on what he had left behind. Iolaus did not hold the same value to Hippolyte or any of the Amazons. How long, then, before they sent warriors to his room to kill him? He only hoped that Iolaus suspected the same and would set out to find Megara first. That was a difficult enough task in itself. Even with Calus as a guide, how would Iolaus steal his way through a palace full of ferocious warriors, release Megara from the dungeons, and find a way out again? He hoped he had not asked too much of his nephew.

  They turned a corner into a wide passageway, well lit by several torches. Halfway along, two Amazon warriors stood guard over a large doorway. Althaia walked up to the door and banged her fist on the wood.

  ‘Let him enter,’ came Hippolyte’s voice from within.

  ‘But not with your weapons,’ Althaia added, turning to face Heracles. ‘Give me your bow and your club, and the knife from your belt. We will keep them safe.’

  Knowing it was useless to resist, he removed his weapons one by one and laid them on a bench beside the door. The hint of a smile touched Althaia’s lips, but she said no more. Opening the door, she ushered him into the queen’s chamber and closed it behind him again.

  Up to that point, everything in the city had seemed ascetic – the battlements, the houses, the palace, and most of all the Amazons themselves. He had expected the same of Hippolyte’s bedroom, but to his surprise he found clay lamps burning in the corners, intricately woven tapestries on the walls, thick fleeces covering the floor, and, at the centre of it all, a large bed with four carved posts and an awning. There was a warmth and intimacy here he had not found anywhere else in Themiscyra, as if the cold frugality outside was a mask that hid a secret inner desire for beauty.

  He looked again at the tapestries, anticipating scenes of battle and the destruction of men, but saw instead mountains and forests, waterfalls and meadows, populated only by birds and woodland beasts. Even the air was fresh, coming in through a tall window on the opposite side of the room. Through it, he could see the black mountains in the distance, crowned with stars. A shallow bowl filled with newly cut lilies stood on a table before the window, and the breeze carried their scent around the chamber.

  ‘Take off that ugly lion skin. You’re not here to do battle, and you look much more handsome without it.’

  Hippolyte stood to his right, leaning back against the edge of a table. A golden cup was in her hand, and beside her were an ornately decorated crater and a second cup. He could smell the mixture of wine and spices, and felt his tongue moisten at the thought of tasting it. He pulled off his cloak and draped it over a chair beside the door, before crossing to join the queen. She filled the other cup and handed it to him.

  He had been with many women in the days before his marriage, and of those that had invited him to their beds, all had gone to considerable lengths to emphasize their femininity: intricate hairstyles; carefully applied powders and face paints; expensive perfumes; gossamer clothing that revealed the curve of their hips and the swell of their breasts. All to compensate for his excess of masculinity. Yet all had ended the same: the dresses abandoned or torn; the perfumes tainted with fresh sweat; the coloured lips smudged; and the hair tangled and wild. Like the bones and grease left after a meal.

  But Hippolyte cared nothing for those things. Despite the softer character suggested by the tapestries and flowers, she had made no effort to make herself attractive to him. Why should she? They had struck a deal, like two merchants in a marketplace. She had no requirement to embellish that deal or give him anything more than she had promised. And so she wore the same blue, knee-length tunic as earlier, had applied no powders to her dark skin, nor dabbed scents on those parts of her body that would draw his face and lips to them. Indeed, the thought of her enhancing her appearance with paints, or even owning the expensive perfumes that other women craved, seemed ridiculous.

  The only changes in her appearance from earlier were that she was barefoot and had removed the plait from the back of her hair. But these were for her own benefit, not his – to feel the thick fleece between her toes and her hair loose over her shoulders. But as he looked down at her long legs and followed the curve of her thighs to the bulge of her left breast, letting his roaming gaze come to rest on her hard but pleasing face, he felt his desire for her begin to take command. Though Megara lay imprisoned in a cell somewhere below him, and though he sensed there was more of the spider about Hippolyte than the butterfly, he knew his lust would grow quickly and soon demand fulfilment.

  She made no pretence at modesty. Her gaze wandered down to the taut muscles of his shoulders and arms, and he sensed her excitement at the passion to come. She laid a hand on his chest, feeling the contours of his body as she slid her fingers up to the back of his neck. Slowly, she pulled his face towards hers, tilting her mouth upwards to meet his. Her lips were warm and soft, in contrast to the hardness within. Then, as their tongues met, she became more forceful, wanting – expecting – to dominate. He responded, raising his hand to her left hip and sliding it up to her ribs. She pushed it away with a grunt. Grinning through their kiss, he forced his hand to her hip again, sliding it up to her breast.

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ she ordered, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘First show me the belt.’

  She stared up at him. Then she left his embrace and crossed to the bed, pulling her tunic over her head as she walked and tossing it aside. There, gleaming against the brown skin of her naked hips, was the golden belt of Ares. It was formed from a series of oblong plates etched with intricate patterns, each joined to its neighbour by a ring. Though a thing of unmistakeable beauty, at first his eyes preferred to linger on the curves of her buttocks as she stood by the bed with her back to him, her hands resting on her hips. Then something caught his eye: a glimmer of movement on the belt. To his amazement, he saw that the engraved patterns were moving!

  Hippolyte looked over her shoulder at him.

  ‘Did you forget the belt was a gift from the gods?’ she asked. ‘Hephaistos breathed life into the scenes, and Ares endowed it with the power to enhance the bearer’s skill in battle. I have never lost a fight while wearing it.’

  He looked again at the golden belt. The plate on her left hip showed a row of spearmen advancing to war, their sandaled feet marching repeatedly over the same ground. The next depicted the same warriors engaged in a fierce battle, their mouths opening and closing in silent shouts as their shields and spears clashed together, over and over again. This was followed by a scene in which several figures lay heaped one upon another, the only movement coming from the carrion birds that pecked at the lifeless bodies. Finally, the plate on her right hip featured the spirit of a dead warrior, being lead by Hermes into the Underworld.

  She turned to face him. Her sun-darkened skin looked like copper in the light of the oil lamps, which made the shadows dance across her contours. The side of her chest where her right breast should have been was oddly flat and plain, contrasting markedly with the mound of her left breast. Yet she felt no shame or embarrassment about the disfigurement that had been inflicted upon her by her mother. Every Amazonian woman was the same, and to them it was not only a sign that they were warriors, it was also a sign of beauty.

  His gaze fell to the triangle of her pubic hair, and to the large circular buckle that rested above it, with a golden plate on either side. The one to the right depicted a young man in armour. He carried his helmet under his arm, and was recognizable as one of the marching soldiers on the other plates. Seated before him was a woman in a bridal dress, her f
ace buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking. The scene on the left showed the same woman dressed in mourning clothes, standing over a bier on which was laid the body of her dead husband. Hephaistos, it seemed to Heracles, was not a lover of war.

  ‘Now take off your tunic,’ the queen said, her tone soft but impatient. ‘If you want my belt – if you want me – then do as I command. I want to see you naked.’

  He unslipped his belt and took off his tunic, while she knelt before him and removed his sandals.

  ‘Good,’ she said, standing and eyeing him approvingly. ‘You will give me a strong daughter.’

  ‘And if you have a son?’

  ‘I have sacrificed at the Temple of Artemis. The goddess will ensure the child is a girl.’

  A daughter of his, he thought, destined to rule over the Amazons; or a son, crippled in infancy and forced to serve them like a slave. He did not like either prospect, but the fate of the child was the concern of the gods, not his. He was only concerned with the golden belt around her shapely waist, and as he looked at her tall body – her muscles toned and hardened by years of training for battle – he knew that the fulfilment of the labour would be a pleasure.

  He placed his hand in the small of her back and drew her closer, enjoying the feel of her hot, smooth skin against his, with the cool gold of the belt trapped between them. Her lips parted and he could see the light of desire in her dark eyes as she lifted her face to his. The kiss was passionate and hungry, the movement of her lithe body against his almost desperate as she forced her will on him. Then he cupped his hands under her thighs and carried her to the bed.

  They collapsed onto the deep furs, her arms and legs tightening their grip around him as he lay on top of her. Taking her face in his hands, he pressed his lips against hers. She kissed him back, pushing her tongue into his mouth. Then she clapped her hand against his broad shoulder and tried to push him to one side, using her whole body in an attempt to roll him onto his back. And there was strength in her arms and legs, strength that was used to having its way with men. But Heracles was no Amazonian slave. He brushed her hand aside and pressed his weight down on her, pinning her to the bed.