The death of Copreus brought Heracles no pleasure, only more questions. As he left the burning temple – his face streaked with black and his eyes sore from the smoke – he passed knots of people gathering in the alleys and thoroughfares. Few took any notice of him, their attention drawn to the billows of thick grey smoke pouring up from the roof of the temple. A loud crash behind him signified the fall of the ceiling, and then he heard the tramp of running feet and the shouts of soldiers ahead of him. He slipped into a doorway while they rushed past, several carrying jars of water that slopped onto the floor as they ran.
The guards on the gate were distracted by the smoke and let him pass without question. Once outside the walls of the citadel, though, he sensed that something else was happening: the usually crowded streets were almost empty, except for a few women and children crying out in distress as they ran from some unseen terror. A troop of spearmen barged past them in the opposite direction, hurrying down towards the outer walls. Hearing the clamour of voices, Heracles decided to follow them.
They soon met a large crowd, filling the street that led to the city gates. The spearmen forced a path between them and joined a cordon of other soldiers who were holding back the press of people. There were angry shouts from the surrounding mob, and loud cries to the gods, but Heracles was more unsettled by the high, keening voices of the women. Punctuating the uproar was the distinct sound of hammering.
He pushed his way through the throng to the line of soldiers, who had formed a shield wall in a semicircle about several houses. An officer stood in the space to their rear, shouting for his men to hold the line steady. A handful of bodies lay scattered over the ground behind him, their clothes stained with blood. Another group of soldiers were lifting them up, one at a time, and carrying them to the houses, where they nailed them to the doors by their hands. Half a dozen had already been crucified, their lifeless heads lolling on their chins. And as with the other massacre Heracles had witnessed, the victims included old men, women and children.
With the deaths of his own sons fresh in his thoughts – revived by the confrontation with Copreus – he turned and began forging a way through the crowd. Drained by a sense of helpless despair, he stumbled blindly through the press of bodies, wanting only to be alone and free of the horror of that place. Then a voice called out.
‘Do something, Heracles! Do something.’
‘Heracles! It’s Heracles,’ cried another.
‘Heracles will help us!’
‘Justice!’ a woman shouted. ‘Give us justice!’
Justice is for the gods, he thought, remembering Copreus’s mocking words. Take your complaints to them. Sort your own problems out. But he said nothing. Putting his head down, he pushed through the mob that were gathering around him. A woman fell before his outthrust hand with a scream.
‘Where’s he going?’
‘Is he leaving us?’
‘He’s running away!’
Something hit him between the shoulder blades. He turned and saw a sandal in the dust at his feet. Another sandal hit him in the chest, and a third thudded off the ear of his lion skin.
‘What do you want from me?’ he shouted at them.
He looked at their faces – angry, tearful, ugly, dirty, hysterical, old, young, desperate – but as they stared back at him they must have realized he did not have the answers to their needs. No one spoke in reply, and slowly they began turning their backs on him. Angry with himself, angry with Eurystheus and his murderous soldiers, angry with Copreus, and angry with the gods, he swept through the last of the crowd and slipped into a side alley. Wishing that Iolaus were with him, or better still, that he was lying in Megara’s arms in their old house overlooking Thebes, he made his way round to the city gates and set off for the port.
He found the galley waiting for him, a rider having been sent from the palace to order them to be ready for Heracles’s arrival. Not that anyone in the crew knew the way. All the helmsman knew was that the island was said to be at the very ends of the earth, where the sun sank into the western seas. In no mood to discuss sea routes, Heracles told him to do the best he could and sat on the furthest bench, waiting for the anchor stones to be pulled up and the order given to row the ship out to sea. When it came, he threw himself into the work, hoping the pull of the sea against his oar and the strain on his muscles would distract him from his consuming anger. In the end, as he watched the coastline of Tiryns disappearing in the wake of the galley, he was just more aware of the fact he was still running away.
The crew followed the sun from one landfall to the next. As they passed beyond the Ionian Sea into unknown waters – making camp on strange shores and venturing inland for supplies – they were often attacked by ferocious beasts or gangs of brigands. More than once they were set upon by pirates, and at other times they would approach a city, only to be met by an army that would drive them back to their galley. But Heracles was always in the vanguard of their defence, driving back assailants with heavy losses, and saving the lives of his shipmates time and time again.
Yet he formed few friendships among them. Though they admired and respected him for his courage in a fight and his strength at the oars, he remained aloof from them, rarely taking part in their singing and dancing when the labours of the day were over, or drinking with them and sharing in their games of dice. Rather, he would stand alone at the prow, watching the dolphins swimming alongside and the gulls soaring overhead, or staring at the distant shores with their wooded hills and snow-capped mountains. And always he would watch the chariot of the sun slipping ahead of them into the west, hoping that the following sunset would bring them to Erytheia and the next step on his journey to freedom.
While his eyes observed the unfamiliar new world they were passing through, his thoughts remained far behind him. Why had Copreus made him murder his children? And why had he taken his own life, rather than answer his question? What secret had he been so desperate to keep? The same questions kept churning through his brain, over and over again, leaving him no closer to the truth.
Mostly, though, his thoughts were on Megara. After their narrow escape from Themiscyra – when he had shot down the pursuing Amazons from the end of the jetty, while the boat from the galley had crawled across the waves to bring them to safety – the next few days had been blissful. He had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed his wife’s company, and how much he had missed her. He had suffered too many months tortured by the knowledge she hated him for what he had done. Yet the revelation he was not responsible for the deaths of their sons had released her from that anger and bitterness, closing some of the distance that had grown between them and giving him hope that all was not lost.
They had spent their short time together talking about many things: about his labours; about her discovery of the mushrooms, and the visit to the witch; of his life as a slave, and of her unhappy return to her father’s palace. But not about the things that really mattered – about the deaths of their children, and whether a tragedy of that magnitude could ever be overcome. Heracles knew he had to speak with her about these things if the gulf of pain that separated them was ever to be closed. But the crowded deck of a galley did not permit such a conversation, and so the opportunity slipped away.
Then, as they had stood on the shores close to Thebes – with the ship waiting in the straits to take him away from her again – he had looked into her eyes and hoped she would tell him not to go. If she had, he would have stayed with her, abandoning his labours and never returning to Tiryns, knowing that her forgiveness would be enough for him to find the peace he so desperately needed.
But she said nothing. Was it because she knew he would not continue the labours the oracle had commanded him to complete, and that he would forswear his sacred oath to serve Eurystheus, bringing the curse of the gods upon himself? Or was it because her love for him truly had died, another victim of the mushrooms Copreus had given him? Instead, she had taken his hands in hers and kissed them, bathing them in her te
ars before turning and walking away.
He had watched her from the deck of the galley as the crew had rowed back out to sea, telling himself that all was not lost. If he could complete the labour and return quickly, he might yet fan the embers of her love into flame and win her back. She was a young woman, in need of a husband and children, just as he needed to fill the chasm left by the loss of his family. Their marriage would never regain its former innocence, but with more children, they could start afresh. It was a small hope, but it was enough.
Yet time was imperative, and it was running out. He had already wasted too many weeks creeping slowly westwards, from one landfall to the next, with no sign or rumour of Erytheia. They encountered many friendly rulers and galley captains on their voyage, who gave them directions for the quickest way to proceed. But it was not quick enough, and Heracles feared that with each passing day Megara’s feelings for him cooled a little more.
Then they met an old shipwright in a port where they had anchored for repairs after a fierce storm had torn their sails and snapped the mast. He claimed to have travelled to Erytheia in his youth with a ship’s captain who had heard of a deserted temple on the island, filled with gold. The captain had left the shipwright and a skeleton crew behind, while he and his band of adventurers went in search of the fabled treasure. When the expedition did not return after many days, the others sailed home and the shipwright had never been back since. But he remembered the way. They were to sail due west for five days and five nights until they reached a narrowing of the sea between two headlands. This was the gateway that marked the end of the earth. Another day and night beyond that, they would sight the island they were looking for. But he warned them not to go any further, for once they entered the waters of the River Ocean that encircled the earth, they would never return.
Heracles kicked his heels in frustration for another two days while a replacement mast was fitted, then set sail on the morning of the third. Five days later, the galley passed between the two headlands on a sea that was bereft of any other vessels. The rocky coastlines on either side were equally empty, with not a single village, farmhouse or shepherd’s hut to be seen. As they passed through to the open waters beyond, Heracles felt he was leaving part of himself behind. A part that would not be there if he ever came back.
* * *
Megara stood at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables for a broth. The door was open and a slight breeze brought with it the sound of goats from the hillsides, along with the mixed aroma of dung and blossoms. Sunset was not far off, and through the door she could see the long shadows cast by the fruit trees.
Several weeks had passed since she had watched Heracles’s galley sail for Tiryns. She had kept herself busy in that time, putting their old house in order. Aithre had proved herself more able and hard-working than Megara had expected – even with a baby to care for – and together they had dusted away the cobwebs, swept the floors, washed and scrubbed the kitchen, and carried out countless other chores to make the place liveable again.
Despite Aithre’s constant complaints that such work was not for a princess, Megara was glad of the distraction from the difficult thoughts and emotions being back provoked. She had visited her sons’ bedroom several times while living in her father’s palace, but despite being back in the house, she still felt the terrible pain of their loss every time she entered the room. Focusing on turning the empty villa back into a home fit for Heracles – and the other children she hoped they might have together – helped her to cope with the ghosts that still haunted it.
She had also hoped that being there would help her understand her feelings for her husband. After the deaths of Therimachus, Creontiades and little Deicoon, she had hated him for what he had done. She told herself that their marriage had died with their children, and was determined never to see him again. Yet she had loved him too much to drive him from her heart entirely. As the weeks passed and her grief lost some of its bitterness, she found herself remembering her affection for him and the happiness they had once shared. Then she discovered the mushrooms that had caused his madness. No longer able to blame him for what had happened, her resistance softened. She confessed to herself that she still needed him, emotionally and physically.
Most of all, she missed his touch. She wanted to feel his powerful arms about her and know she did not have to carry her burdens alone any more. She wanted to be made love to again – to surrender to her deepest desires and release her pent-up emotions.
She gathered up the sliced vegetables and carried them to the cauldron over the fire, tossing them into the boiling water and feeling the flecks of hot liquid spatter back over her forearms. As she watched the pieces bobbing around in the water, she heard a man’s voice singing in the gardens around the house. Her heart lightened at the sound. She wiped her hands on her apron and picked up a wooden cup, filling it with water from the pithos in the corner of the room. She walked outside and squinted against the bloated orb of the sun, hanging low in the west.
‘Megara!’
Iolaus was walking towards her, his face and limbs begrimed with sweat and dust. He waved to her and she smiled and waved back. He had laboured hard through the height of summer, fixing broken walls, mending furniture and performing wonders in the vineyards and orchards around the house. But his greatest gift to her had been his company. In the evenings, they would sit before the fire in the hall and talk. Sometimes, he would speak about Heracles and her husband’s battles with terrifying creatures, or of the acts of kindness he performed for the poor. Mostly though, she preferred to hear him talk about simple things – of how many goats had been born in the past week, or of the birds of prey he had seen circling the house, or of how much fruit was growing in the orchards.
‘Here,’ she said, handing him the water. ‘You must be thirsty.’
He drank it in a single draught. Their fingers met as she took the cup from him, and she felt her heart quicken at his touch.
‘It was hard work today. I could have done with Lampos’s help. Where was he?’
‘His mother’s ill, so I let him go down to the city to see to her needs. I’ll prepare you a bath.’
‘Aithre can do it.’
‘I sent her and the baby with her husband. After all, what does a man know about caring for the sick?’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ he asked, with a grin. ‘Being all alone in the house with me?’
‘I trust you,’ she replied.
As she said it, she found herself wishing she did not trust him. The thought shocked her and thrilled her at the same time. She looked at the powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders, the definition made more noticeable by the streaks of dirt from whatever work he had been labouring at all day. It was not the first time she had found herself glancing at his body, though the knowledge that Aithre and Lampos were around had always helped her to control such thoughts. Not to mention the fact she was married, she reminded herself, or that Iolaus was her nephew.
‘At least a man can boil water and make his own bath,’ he said, seemingly unaware of her thoughts.
‘No, let me do it,’ she insisted. ‘If Aithre can bathe you, then so can I.’
‘Aithre’s a slave, and you’re my aunt. Decency forbids—’
‘You make me sound old,’ she chided him, with a hint of frustration. ‘Besides, I’ve already seen you naked.’
She knew she should not have said it, but the words came out anyway. Iolaus’s ears turned red, as they always did when he was embarrassed.
‘It’s true, neither of us has much to hide from the other any more,’ he replied, forcing a conciliatory smile. ‘But you’re not a slave, Megara. I’ll prepare my own bath.’
She bit her lip hard as she watched him walk to the kitchen door and enter the house. What had she been thinking? Why cause him embarrassment, when he had shown her nothing but kindness and the highest respect through all their weeks together? The answer, of course, was obvious. She did not want his respect. She di
d not want him to treat her like an aunt. She wanted him to treat her like a woman – to remember the way she had been that night in the Amazon prison, naked and exposed before him. Just as she could not help but remember his nakedness, as she had remembered it every day since.
But Iolaus loved his uncle more than anyone else – more than he could ever love her – and he would rather die than betray him. And what of her own loyalty? Had she not been preparing the house for Heracles’s return, in the belief they could still be reunited as man and wife? Was she not letting her desire for her husband confuse her? Suddenly, she imagined Iolaus leaving the house and going back to Thebes, where he would not be a temptation to her. It was the sort of honourable thing he would do.
‘You fool,’ she told herself. ‘Go to him and apologize. Tell him you didn’t mean it.’
By the time she had reached the kitchen, he was already gone. She felt a moment of panic, and had to restrain herself from running through the house looking for him. Slowly, she persuaded herself that he would not leave her – if only because he had promised Heracles he would keep her safe. But that was even worse, to have him stay out of duty rather than friendship, or anything else.
A bowl of wine sat on a table, ready to be mixed with water for the evening meal. She dipped her cup into it and drank it down quickly. It was strong and made her wince, but after a few moments, she felt it warming her insides and making her head light. Hurriedly, she drank a second cup, hoping to drive away the guilt and nervousness that were eating at her.
* * *
The kitchen smelled richly of fresh bread and broth by the time Iolaus returned. The old brown garment he wore for working in the vineyards and orchards had been replaced by a clean scarlet tunic. He had scraped the dirt and sweat from his limbs and rubbed his muscles with olive oil, giving them a faint sheen. His hair, too, had been washed and oiled. Yet he seemed tense, barely giving Megara more than a glance.
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