Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  The room beyond was small and empty, but for some clay pithoi propped against one wall and a broken chair in the corner. Opening the door on the other side, he stepped into a high-ceilinged chamber. The aroma of incense caught at the back of his throat, making him cough a little. The sound echoed back from the walls, as if mocking him.

  He looked around himself. At the back of the temple was a statue of Aphrodite. It was as ugly as the goddess was reputed to be beautiful, its wide hips and oversized breasts a crude representation of her sensuality. Many times, as he was relieving his carnal desires with the priestess, he had looked up at the face and imagined the goddess watching them, as if their fornication attracted her presence. Now, it was nothing more than a lifeless block of painted wood, bathed in a flickering orange glow from the torches on either side of it.

  The hissing flames cast deep shadows around the rest of the temple. The faded and flaking frescoes on the walls were barely visible, though he knew them intimately from his many visits there: lurid depictions of orgies between satyrs and nymphs, from which he had often drawn inspiration for his liaisons with the priestess. Not that one needed inspiration with Calyce, who knew her trade well.

  Her mattress lay in its usual spot by the wall, draped with thick, warm fleeces. A bowl of mixed wine and two wooden cups sat on a table beside it. The sight of the bed – and the memory of times he had spent there in her arms – stoked his need to lie with her again. Indeed, the return of Heracles had left him tense and fearful, and he could think of no better way to relieve his anxiety.

  ‘Calyce? I know you’re here – I can smell your perfume.’

  A figure stepped out of the shadows behind the statue of Aphrodite. She was taller than Copreus and wore a white dress that parted from her ankle to her hip, revealing her long thighs and a hint of buttock. Her face was powdered, her lips were a seductive red and her eyes were rimmed with black, giving her natural looks an intensity that Copreus could barely resist. Yet her bearing was different: the usual air of easy sexuality had succumbed to an unfamiliar stiffness.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said.

  ‘Must I make appointments now? I’ve had a difficult morning, and I just wanted to speak with you. I need to stay in the temple – just for a day or two, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, walking up to him and draping her arms over his shoulders. ‘As long as you pay the goddess her dues, then I am here to serve you. In any way you wish.’

  She leaned down and pressed her lips against his, hard enough for him to feel the wax in the paste she had applied. He placed his hands on her hips, feeling the belt that held the halves of her dress together. Sliding his fingers into the gap, he ran them over her ribs and up to her ample breasts. But her response was unusually stilted. Lifting her lips from his, she placed them next to his ear.

  ‘He’s here,’ she whispered.

  He felt a sudden jolt of fear. Releasing his hold of her, he stepped back and drew his sword. Calyce gave a dismayed cry and ran to a corner of the temple. Looking around himself, he saw nothing but the four pillars that held up the ceiling and the effigy of Aphrodite against the back wall. Then another figure emerged from the shadows in the far corner of the temple. He was nearly as tall as the statue, and was made a whole hand taller by the head of the lion skin he wore. A massive club hung from his right hand.

  ‘Did you think I wouldn’t find you, Copreus?’ Heracles said. He stepped into the light of one of the torches, the fire reflecting in his eyes. ‘Did you think there was anywhere you could hide from me?’

  Copreus stared into the baleful features of the man whose life he had destroyed. He had dreaded this moment for almost two years, and with Megara freed from the Amazons there was nothing to stop Heracles taking his revenge. But now that it was here, his fear left him. Death was inevitable and the time for secrecy and lies was over. Everything was in the open. Almost everything.

  ‘How did you find me?’ he asked.

  ‘Megara said you’d come here, sooner or later; that this was where you took her hostage.’

  ‘Iphicles told you I’d sent her to the Amazons, didn’t he? Charis didn’t receive the labour from Hera at all – it was Iphicles talked her into it. Strange, this persuasive effect you have on people who should hate you.’

  ‘Hate?’ Heracles said. ‘Hate is a pointless, destructive emotion. It was hate that drove you to drug me, making me murder my own children so you could avenge the death of your father. And it was out of hate that I killed Erginus – hate for the oppression he inflicted on Thebes. Even that was driven by his hatred for the Thebans, who killed his own father. And so it goes on. So it always has. But I won’t kill you out of hate, Copreus; I will kill you because justice demands it.’

  ‘Justice is for the gods to mete out,’ Copreus countered. ‘Not the guilty.’

  He lunged with the point of his sword. Heracles twisted aside, letting the edge of the blade skim over the back of his cloak. Then, with a shout that rang from the temple walls, he gripped his club in both hands and swung it at Copreus’s head. Copreus ducked beneath the sweep of the cudgel, feeling it fan the air above him, then fell back and circled towards the entrance to the temple. Anticipating his intentions, Heracles cut off his escape and forced him back towards the statue. They eyed each other for a few brief moments, trying to anticipate the next attack, and all the time searching for a weakness or error that would give them victory.

  Heracles moved first, snarling as he arced his weapon through the air. Copreus jumped back and the club smashed into one of the torch stands, sending it clattering across the flagstones. The torch spilled from its iron bracket and landed at the feet of the statue. Calyce screamed from the corner of the temple where she was cowering with her arms over her head.

  A second sweep of the club sent Copreus staggering back again, forcing his weight awkwardly onto his bad leg. He cried out as a shock of pain lanced up through his hip. Seeing his weakness, Heracles drove his attack home, swinging his club with full force into Copreus’s upper arm. There was a crack of breaking bone, and the herald was thrown across the temple. He crashed against the wall and fell to the floor with a grunt, chunks of broken plaster falling over him.

  He blacked out momentarily, only to be brought back to his senses by another scream from Calyce. He tried to move, but could feel the halves of the broken bone in his arm grating against each other. The force of the blow had numbed the pain, but his flesh felt weak and nausea tugged at his stomach and the base of his throat. He could be sick at any moment, but doubted he would be alive long enough. Looking up, he saw Heracles towering over him.

  ‘This is for Therimachus, and for Creontiades, and for little Deicoon,’ Heracles said, though as Copreus stared up into his executioner’s eyes, he saw not hatred, but tears. ‘You took them away from me, Copreus, and you made me the instrument of their deaths. But before I become the instrument of your death, I want you to answer one question. Answer truthfully, and your end will be quick. Refuse, or answer falsely, and I promise to make it slow and excruciating.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why did my sons have to die? There are mushrooms that can kill a man, not just send him mad. You could have poisoned me without the need to harm my family.’

  There was a sudden crackle of fire. The flames from the torch had taken hold of the painted feet of the goddess’s statue and were climbing rapidly. Calyce gave a cry and ran out through the door to the anteroom. But Heracles cared nothing for the priestess or the burning effigy. Reaching down, he seized Copreus by the throat and dragged him to his feet.

  ‘Answer me!’ he snarled, pushing him against the wall with enough force to bring down another chunk of plaster. ‘Answer me now!’

  Copreus knew he was going to die, but he would not give Heracles the satisfaction of knowing the truth. He could just as easily have given the foolish old housekeeper death cap mushrooms. He had not cared whether Heracles died from the agonizing effects of
the poison, or whether he took his own life after murdering his family. The first would have been quicker and more certain than counting on his suicide. But the matter was not that simple.

  He grinned and shook his head.

  ‘I’ll tell you nothing.’

  Heracles gave a deafening cry of rage. The look in his eyes turned to one of awful fury, and his grip around Copreus’s throat tightened. Yet, if he had wanted to kill the herald, he could have done it easily; only the desire for an answer was restraining him. He turned to look at the once shadowy temple, which was now ablaze with light from the burning effigy, and filled with smoke. Then, seizing hold of Copreus’s shoulder, Heracles dragged him towards the conflagration.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Copreus shouted over the roar of the fire.

  Heracles did not answer. He seized hold of Copreus’s broken arm and thrust his hand into the flames. The heat was sudden and intense, like nothing he had ever experienced before. He threw his head back and screamed.

  ‘Why?’ Heracles demanded, pulling his hand out again. ‘Why?’

  His lips were drawn back over his teeth and his smoke-reddened eyes were narrowed menacingly. But Copreus could only think about the dreadful agony of his burned hand as he turned his face from the searing heat of the flames and gasped for air. Then Heracles plunged his hand back into the blaze

  The pain was too much. He passed out, only to be woken an instant later by a brutal smack across the cheek. His hand had been pulled from the fire again, though the agony was still unbearable.

  ‘Please! Please!’ he heard himself begging.

  Heracles stared down at him.

  ‘Why my children? Why didn’t you just kill me?’

  He held Copreus’s arm, ready to force it back into the fire. Then, through his pain and fear, Copreus remembered that a means of escape was still open to him. His good arm hung free at his side. Raising it to the small of his back, he unsheathed the dagger tucked into his belt.

  ‘You’ll never know,’ he whispered with a grin.

  Lifting the dagger high, he plunged it into his own heart.

  Chapter Five

  TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

  Iolaus had begged his uncle to let him return to Tiryns. But Heracles had refused.

  ‘She’s not to be left unguarded, even in Thebes,’ he had insisted. ‘Not as long as Copreus is still alive.’

  ‘But she’ll be safe with Creon,’ Iolaus had protested, glancing over his shoulder at Megara, who was standing on the dunes at the top of the beach. ‘And my place is at your side. I should be with you when Eurystheus announces the next labour.’

  ‘My wife is more important. And you’re the only one I trust to keep her safe. Promise me you’ll watch over her until I send for you.’

  Iolaus had nodded reluctantly, then stared out at the waiting galley as Heracles walked to the top of the beach to bid Megara farewell. Had they kissed, he had wondered? Before the madness, they had loved each other deeply. That affection still remained – he had seen it in the way they looked at each other, even if a great gulf had opened up between them since. And he had hoped they would one day bridge that gulf.

  Megara had joined him to watch Heracles sail away. There had been a great sadness in her eyes as they had followed the course of the galley, but no tears.

  ‘What will happen to us, Iolaus?’ she had asked.

  He had not answered. How could he?

  A little later, he bought a donkey from a farmer. The price had been too high, but he would not let Megara walk all the way to Thebes. And it had been worth it, just to hear her laugh as he took her by the waist and lifted her onto the animal’s back. Suddenly, her sadness departed and he caught a glimpse of the woman he used to know, before tragedy had taken her away. The memory of her sufferings seemed to fade from her face as she smiled down at him. He smiled back, though his joy was only momentary. Had she also put aside the memory of their meeting in her prison cell, he wondered, when their eyes had lingered on each other’s nakedness? He knew he could not.

  Shortly after they had started the journey back to Thebes, she had told him that she had no intention of returning to her father’s palace.

  ‘But you have to,’ he had insisted. ‘Heracles charged me with keeping you safe, and he said the safest place is with Creon.’

  ‘I refuse to go back to that prison. I’m not a child any more, Iolaus, or do you forget I was once head of my own household? Living under my father’s gaze was driving me insane.’

  ‘He cares about you.’

  ‘He was barely aware of my existence until he gave me away to Heracles. Since then he has detested me.’

  ‘Detested?’

  ‘Because I refused to spy on Heracles for him.’

  ‘But why would he want you to spy on Heracles? Without him, Creon would still be paying tribute to King Erginus. He saved Thebes.’

  ‘So he could claim the throne for himself, or so my father suspects,’ Megara replied. ‘No, I’ll not return to the city.’

  ‘There’s nowhere else you can go.’

  She looked down at him from the back of the donkey.

  ‘Yes, there is. I can go back to my old house.’

  Iolaus frowned at the thought of her returning to the place where her troubles had begun, with all its horrific memories.

  ‘But it hasn’t been lived in for over a year. It’ll hardly be fit for a princess. And you’ll be bored—’

  ‘No I won’t. Aithre will come with me if I ask her, and I’m sure I can persuade one or two more of Heracles’s old slaves to join us. And I’ll have you, of course.’

  ‘It’ll be much safer for you in the palace. I have to insist—’

  She took his hand lightly in hers and looked into his eyes.

  ‘Please come, Iolaus. I need you.’

  He held her gaze for a moment, until guilt at his feelings forced him to look away. Was there more than a need for friendship in her expression, or was he simply confusing her desires with his own? And by accepting her offer, would he not be exposing her to a different kind of danger? Surely the best way to protect her was to take her to the palace and leave her under her father’s protection, while he rejoined Heracles in Tiryns. But he was too weak.

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ he said.

  Two days later – at the same moment Heracles was learning his newest labour from Charis, beneath the citadel walls in Tiryns – Iolaus stood with Megara before the villa she had shared with her husband for the few blissful years of their marriage. Now, though, it was empty of the life that had once filled it. The windows stared blankly out from the white walls, and though birds still sang in the overgrown gardens, the house itself was silent, as if struck dumb by the horror that had occurred there.

  Sensing Megara’s uncertainty, Iolaus stepped up to the double doors. They opened with a loud creak, and he entered the dimly lit hall where he had spent many evenings in the company of Heracles and Megara. A shaft of dusty sunlight filtered down from the smoke hole in the ceiling, bright among the surrounding shadows. The tables and benches that he remembered being laden with food and wine in more joyful times were stacked against the walls and shrouded with white sheets. Heracles’s enormous chair was gone, leaving only Megara’s smaller one on the dais before the hearth. A few charred stumps of wood were evidence that others had used the place – homeless wanderers seeking shelter, who had long since moved on. Intricately patterned tapestries still hung on the walls, though the designs were indistinct in the darkness.

  ‘This used to be such a happy place,’ Megara said. She had entered behind Iolaus and now stood looking around the hall. ‘I remember Therimachus and Creontiades hiding from their father behind the tapestries while I sat and fed Deicoon. Heracles would pretend to be a Cyclops, or some other monster, and chase them out of their hiding places before catching them and eating them. How they used to squeal!’

  He heard the break in her voice, and turned to see tears gleaming in her eyes.
/>   ‘I don’t think I can do this after all,’ she sobbed, rubbing away the tears with the back of her hand.

  Iolaus placed his arms around her and she lowered her face into his neck. He could feel the damp warmth of her cheeks and smell the faint perfume in her hair; and as she slid her hands up his back and held him close, he felt the power of his need for her, followed by the galling knowledge that she could never be his.

  ‘You can do this, if you want to,’ he told her. ‘I’ll help you. First, we’ll get a fire in the hearth, and then go around the rest of the house and pull the sheets off the furniture and set everything back in its place. Aithre and Lampos will come up tomorrow with your belongings, and we’ll start making the place fit to live in. You’ll see. In a day or two, you’ll be mistress of your own home again.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, pulling away and smiling at him. ‘You’re right, Iolaus. Aithre and I will clean everything up – get curtains in the windows again, and furs on the beds and food in the kitchens. And you and Lampos can fix the goat pens and tidy up the vineyards and orchards. Before we know it, it’ll be ready for Heracles’s return.’

  Her words were like a dagger between the ribs, sudden and unexpected. Somehow he had allowed himself to think that they would make the house habitable again, then live there together in happiness. He had not even thought of Heracles, or that Megara might be preparing the house for her husband. But was that not what he had wanted, too? Heracles was his uncle and master. His place was to serve him, not to replace him.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling back at her. ‘I’ll go gather some wood for a fire.’

  * * *