Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  ‘Look.’

  She released his hand and pointed to a trio of figures at the edge of the clearing. They stood, huddled together and uncertain. But Heracles knew them at once. Tears filled his eyes as he fell to his knees.

  ‘Therimachus,’ he said, his voice faltering and hoarse. ‘Creontiades. Deicoon. Forgive me. Oh, my boys, forgive me.’

  His shoulders shook as his grief and guilt overwhelmed him. He folded his arms over his head, pulling them away a moment later for fear his sons would fade away again. The tears blurred his vision as he stared at them, heartbroken and not knowing what to say or do. Then Therimachus took a step towards him. He held his baby brother, Deicoon, in his arms, and Creontiades followed at his shoulder. They had not aged a day. How could they have? Heracles wiped the tears from his eyes and saw that the wounds of their death were still on them – the bloodstains and the welt around Therimachus’s neck. He threw his arms towards the heavens and cried out, letting the misery flow out of him in one mighty shout of sorrow. And as the anger and self-loathing were released, he heard the voice of Therimachus.

  ‘Father. Father, I remember you.’

  Heracles looked at his oldest boy, the anguish in his heart infinitely worse than the pain inflicted on him by Cerberus. He held his shaking hands out towards his son, pleading for forgiveness.

  ‘Theri, my beautiful son, I’m so sorry for what I did. I’m so sorry.’

  There was confusion in the boy’s eyes, and slowly Heracles realized he did not remember anything of that night. Forgetfulness was the balm of the dead. Yet he had called him Father; he remembered who he was.

  Little Creon stepped forward, his expression changing to one of recognition. Suddenly, he was running into his father’s arms, holding him tight, with all the fierceness of a child’s love. Heracles put his huge hand over his son’s head, stroking his hair and kissing his cheeks repeatedly. His tears flowed freely now, mingling sorrow and joy as he wept openly. Then he looked at Theri, who would forever be a six-year-old boy, with Deicoon still clutched to his chest. There were tears in his oldest son’s eyes, too, and as Heracles stretched out his arm, he ran to embrace him.

  ‘Father! Father, I love you. We love you so much.’

  Heracles kissed his beautiful soft forehead and folded all three of his children to his chest.

  Chapter Fourteen

  FREEDOM

  Iolaus lay propped against the wall of the cave. His sword was at his side, the blade dark with dried blood. The fire had gone out, with only a faint wisp of smoke rising from the embers. There was a stack of wood against the other wall, but his wounds had sapped his strength, forcing him to watch as the flames had died and the shadows had closed around him.

  He had faded in and out of consciousness since his battle with the great wolf. The beast’s jaws had added to the wounds already inflicted on him by the rest of the pack. But its body now lay close to the cave entrance, through which he could see the skies growing light as dawn approached.

  The wolf’s death had marked the end of the attack. Had another entered the cave, he would not have had the strength to resist it. But with their leader slain, the survivors had fled, howling pitifully into the night. The horses must have left the cave during one of his periods of unconsciousness. Where they were now, he did not know, nor much care.

  He expected his efforts had all been for nothing. In a few moments, the sun would rise and Heracles’s soul would be trapped in the Underworld for eternity. As for himself, his wounds were too severe and he had lost so much blood; very soon, his spirit would be joining his uncle’s. At least it would not have far to travel, he thought with an ironic smile. Then his eyelids grew heavy and closed against his will.

  A noise disturbed him from his slumber. He opened his eyes, hoping to see his uncle sitting upright with Cerberus bound up beside him. But the body had not moved and its skin still had the hue of death about it. Yet he was sure had heard something. He tried calling Heracles’s name, but all that came out was a hoarse croak. He slumped back against the cave wall, forcing himself to breathe, despite the pain of his wounds.

  Then another sound broke the stillness, like the padding of heavy feet at the back of the cave. He clutched at his sword, heaving it with a grunt onto his lap.

  ‘Heracles,’ he whispered. ‘Is that you?’

  Something moved, a shadow within the blackness, growing larger as it crept out from the mouth of the tunnel. A point of light appeared, then another and another, until six red orbs were watching him from the darkness. Rows of teeth gleamed in the pale light that infused the cave, but they did not belong to any wolf. They were too large for that.

  He let his sword slide back to the floor. Whatever was waiting for him in the back of the cave was not of this world, so had to be from the next. It had come for his soul, and was only waiting for the last of his life to ebb away before emerging from its hiding place. The storytellers and the priests always said that it was Hermes who guided spirits to the Land of the Dead, but whatever lurked in the shadows was no god.

  Death would not be long now, he thought with a sigh. He turned his head the other way. It was better to die looking at the light of the new day.

  Then a rapid intake of breath broke the stillness. Suddenly, Heracles sat bolt upright and shouted, his voice ringing from the walls of the cave. His chest heaved rapidly as he stared blankly into the shadows before him.

  ‘Uncle!’ Iolaus croaked.

  It was painful to speak, but he felt joy in his heart. Heracles had returned! Of course he had – how could he have ever doubted him?

  ‘Where am I?’ Heracles asked.

  ‘At the entrance to the Underworld. Back in your own body – assuming you ever left it.’

  Iolaus looked at his uncle’s face. Something about him had changed, though it was not the change he had expected in a man who had seen the Land of the Dead. There was a curious peace in his eyes – a peace that he had not seen in him for a long time.

  ‘Yes, I left it.’

  ‘Then the potion worked,’ Iolaus said. ‘And did your soul enter the Underworld? Did you find Cerberus?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Heracles thoughts seemed elsewhere, but after a moment he turned to his nephew.

  ‘I saw them, Iolaus. I saw them! I… I held them in my arms.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My sons. They were right there.’ He held his hand out before him, still seeing them in his mind’s eye. ‘I asked their forgiveness and they… and they embraced me. They told me they loved me.’

  He shut his eyes and his shoulders shook as he cried tears of joy. Iolaus stared at him, not quite understanding what had happened, but knowing in his heart that his uncle had finally been healed, just as the oracle had promised he would be. But if he had completed the labour, then where was Cerberus? As soon the question entered his mind, he knew the answer. He looked at the shadow in the back of the cave, and felt the fear of something worse than death creeping into his veins.

  The sun had risen and its pale radiance was filtering in through the curtain of ivy. The monster walked out of the gloom and the daylight fell back before it, unable to penetrate its black hide. Iolaus stared at it in horror as it seemed to expand before him, filling the whole of the back of the cave. Seeing the terror on his face, Heracles turned to look at the hound.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he reassured his nephew. ‘After I overcame the beast, Persephone ordered it to follow my commands. It doesn’t need to be fettered, as long as I am with it. But we must return to Tiryns as soon as possible; Persephone has promised to guard the gates of Hell for one week in Cerberus’s place, but the hound must be sent back by the end of that time. Is your chariot ready?’

  He stood and stretched his limbs, tipping his head from side to side to ease the stiffness in his neck. Then he took a step towards the cave entrance and noticed the body of the wolf. Immediately, he turned to Iolaus and saw that he was covered in blood. A look of dismay crossed his features an
d he ran to kneel at his nephew’s side.

  ‘How long have you been like this?’

  ‘Since last night.’

  Heracles lifted the strip of cloth from the wound on Iolaus’s shoulder and winced. Then he looked at the other injuries on his blood-drenched limbs. The concern in his eyes became more urgent.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ Iolaus whispered, glancing at the giant figure of Cerberus. ‘We came here so you could go into the Underworld. Now it’s my turn. But I won’t be coming back.’

  Heracles shook his head.

  ‘You’re not dead yet, Iolaus. I won’t let you die. I won’t let you go there.’

  He took the dagger from his belt and cut strips from the hem of Iolaus’s cloak. He removed the blood-caked rag his nephew had placed over his own shoulder, then dampened a fresh cloth from his water-skin and cleaned the wound.

  ‘It’ll solve our little problem,’ Iolaus said.

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘Megara.’

  Heracles looked at the ring of puncture marks in his shoulder, where the wolf’s teeth had broken and bruised the skin. Then he folded a piece of cloth, held it over the wound, and tied it securely with another strip from Iolaus’s cloak.

  ‘Your death will resolve nothing. Now, stay still while I look at these other injuries.’

  Iolaus laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt his uncle’s skilled fingers probing and washing the other bites and claw marks, and bandaging the worst with more strips from his cloak. Then his huge hand was under his jaw, easing it open as he poured a mouthful of water between his lips. He opened his eyes to see Heracles leave the cave, then his mind succumbed to a fog of tiredness and he closed his eyes again.

  He was woken by a hand on his good shoulder.

  ‘The gods are with you, Iolaus. I feared the horses might have been killed, but I found them grazing together further down the hill and yoked them to the chariot. I’m going to drive you to that last village we passed on the way here. There’ll be some wise old hag there who can nurse you back to health.’

  Iolaus grinned through his pain.

  ‘You’ll find the place deserted if they see that monster trotting behind you.’

  ‘I’ll threaten to set him on them if they’ve not healed you by the time I return.’

  ‘You’re going to Tiryns without me?’

  ‘I have to. Time’s too short.’ Heracles paused and took his nephew’s hand. ‘I saw the other bodies and the prints in the dirt. You fought off a whole pack of wolves.’

  ‘It wasn’t natural. I think Hera sent them to destroy your body while your soul was in the Underworld.’

  ‘Then I owe you my life, Iolaus. You fought bravely – too bravely for a mere squire. You’re a warrior now. One of the very best.’

  ‘And yet, now that I am one, I wish I wasn’t. I’ve seen my fill of fighting, uncle.’

  ‘Perhaps you have, my friend,’ Heracles replied, lifting him in his arms and carrying him from the cave. ‘Perhaps you have.’

  * * *

  After ordering Cerberus to remain at the mouth of the gorge that led through the mountains, Heracles drove on as fast as the horses could take him to the nearest village. At first, his body felt strangely heavy and awkward without the strength his father had endowed him with, but he learned to suffer it, just as he had endured so much else. He left Iolaus in the care of an old woman, before warning the whole village to shut themselves indoors and remain there until he had passed through a second time. Most, though, succumbed to their curiosity. As he returned with Cerberus following behind, he saw many villagers fleeing towards the hills, crying out in terror at the sight of the beast.

  For the next few days, he barely saw another man, woman or child. The fields that he passed through were empty, often showing signs of having been abandoned in a hurry, while on the hillsides he saw flocks left to their own devices, their herdsmen having flown at the news of the approaching monster. Villages and even whole towns were silent and still as he passed through or around them. In several, he found merchants’ stalls deserted in haste, so was forced to help himself to fish or freshly baked bread to satisfy his hunger.

  Though it had taken six days to travel from Tiryns to Laconia, he completed the return in less than five. Partly, he was forced on by the cold terror he still felt in Cerberus’s presence. His sleep was fitful and light knowing the monster was nearby, forcing him to rise before dawn and drive long into the evening, with only short rests in between. But mostly he was keen to bring an end to his labours, which could only be done when Eurystheus acknowledged that the final task had been completed. After that, he would be free.

  On the morning of the fifth day, he entered a village expecting it to be deserted, only to find a child sitting cross-legged beside a well on the main road. She was five or six years old, and though alone, did not look upset. Indeed, she seemed absorbed with picking up small knucklebones from the dirt and placing them in the palm of her hand. As Heracles stepped down from his chariot, signalling for Cerberus not to come any closer, she closed her fist around the knucklebones and gave them a shake, before tossing them in the air. Flipping her hand over, she gave a squeal of delight as she caught three of the bones on the backs of her fingers.

  ‘Good morning, daughter,’ Heracles said.

  She stared up at him – large, grey eyes in a begrimed and sun-tanned face – but she did not seem frightened. After glancing at the three-headed monster on the road behind him, she began collecting the knucklebones in her palm again. Heracles frowned to himself, astonished that any child could seem so calm and self-assured before such fearsome figures as himself and Cerberus.

  ‘Where are your family?’ he asked.

  She gave him a fleeting look, then closed her fist over the knucklebones and tossed them into the air again. She grinned to herself as she caught four on the back of her hand.

  ‘Do you want some water?’ he asked, picking up the bucket beside the well. One end of a leather rope was attached to its handle, while the other was firmly tied to a wooden post.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She gathered up the knucklebones as if he was not there, placing each one carefully in her palm. Heracles shrugged and dropped the bucket down the hole, the rope sliding quickly between his fingers. There was a splash and the rope slowed almost to a halt. After a moment, he gripped hold of it and began to haul the bucket back up, lifting it onto the sun-baked earth.

  ‘Share some bread with me, then,’ he persisted, pulling a crust from the satchel on his belt.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she replied, staring beyond him to the enormous figure of Cerberus at the entrance to the village. ‘That’s an ugly dog you have.’

  ‘He’s not mine. You know, most people run at the sight of him. Is that where your parents have gone?’

  Again, she chose not to answer. He ate the crust himself and washed it down with a mouthful of water. The liquid was cool and refreshing, and he raised the bucket for a second swallow. As he lowered it again, he saw the girl walking towards Cerberus. Heracles dropped the bucket and ran after her.

  ‘Stay away from him,’ he shouted. ‘He’s d—’

  The words faded before they left his lips. He slowed to a halt and watch dumbfounded as the monster laid down on the road, lowering his heads in obedience before the child. Without any sign of fear, she reached forward and placed the flat of her hand on one of his muzzles, the great beast whining at her touch.

  ‘How did you do it?’ the girl asked, her voice small and high. ‘How did you, a mortal man, enter the Underworld and return with your life? How did you bring Hades’s watchdog back, following you like a puppy?’

  Heracles’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.’

  But he did not need an answer. In his heart, he already knew who she was. A sense of foreboding took hold of him as he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his
head.

  ‘My lady Hera.’

  ‘My lord Heracles,’ the girl replied, the corner of her mouth raised in a wry grin. ‘Forgive this earthly cloak. If I was to appear to you in all my divine glory, you would be consumed by fire. And my husband would not like that.’

  A shadow passed briefly over the child’s face – the first sign of fear Heracles had seen on her innocent features – but was quickly replaced with a smile.

  ‘I have come to congratulate you on completing the final labour – a feat worthy of immortality. Of course, I never expected you to accomplish the first task, let alone all ten.’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘If you wish,’ she replied. ‘But you certainly have something about you, Heracles, something that sets you far apart from other men. And more than just the strength your father gave you. I wonder what it is that has driven you to victory, time after time. Anger, perhaps? A burning hatred?’

  Heracles glowered at her from beneath puckered brows. The more she spoke, the more he was able to see past the façade of innocence she had assumed, and the more he loathed her. She was the one who had caused him to murder his own children and destroy his family. She had made him a slave to Eurystheus as a penance for his crime. She had set him one impossible labour after another, testing his endurance to its limit and beyond. Indeed, she had been the cause of all his suffering. Yet she dared to stand before him, mocking him from behind her child’s guise. His fists clenched involuntarily at his sides, and he thought of the bow across his back and the club hanging from his belt.

  Hera laughed, her child’s voice unsuited to the malice behind it.

  ‘Oh, what you wouldn’t give, Heracles, to be able to strike me down? I can see your hatred for me, I can almost smell it. You’re reminding yourself of all the things I’ve done to you, and yet, what can you do about it? Nothing. Nothing at all. I am a goddess, immortal; I cannot be killed. Yes, you can destroy this fragile mortal form, but you can’t harm me.’