‘Cerberus,’ he shouted over the clamour. ‘Time to earn your freedom, and mine. Come with me.’
Knowing the monster understood and would obey, he strode towards the fighting. The soldiers saw the giant hound at his back and fled in panic, dropping their weapons as they ran. Glancing over their shoulders, the rebels blanched at the approach of Cerberus and crowded aside, creating a path through the melee. Only a dozen guards remained before the closed gates, but these quickly scattered at the sight of the three-headed dog, throwing themselves to the ground and cowering in terror.
Pulling his cloak over his left shoulder, Heracles bent his knees and prepared to charge the gates. Though he had felt a hint of his old strength in the fight with Tydeus’s men, the real test lay in the thick oak before him. If Hera had spoken truthfully, the bar on the other side would break and the gates would fly open. If not, the loss of his famed strength would be clear for all to see. The guards would be emboldened and the rebels driven back into the streets, while he would be left to die beneath the spears and arrows of his enemies.
He launched himself at the gates, driving his shoulder against the wood. They rattled and shook, showering him with dust as they bent back before him. With a roar, he dug the sides of his feet into the rutted earth and pushed harder, willing his strength to return. For a moment, the bar on the other side held fast. Then there was a sound of splintering wood and the gates flew open before him, his momentum carrying him through into the citadel.
The bodies of three or four archers lay in the street. Without pausing to triumph over the return of his supernatural strength, Heracles plucked his arrows from the two nearest and returned them to his quiver. Sensing a presence to his left, he instinctively turned away and pulled his cloak around himself. An arrow thumped into the lion pelt and bounced off. Another struck his shoulder, breaking on impact but causing him to grimace at the sharp pain. Two more flew over his head.
Gripping his club, he looked up at the stone steps that led down from the battlements. Four archers were drawing their swords and preparing to charge at him. Then a vast shadow emerged from beneath the gatehouse, letting out a terrifying roar as it bounded up the steps towards the men. They turned to flee, one of them falling onto the roof of a house below and rolling down onto the street, where he lay still. The others were snapped up in the jaws of the monster. Its teeth bit clean through their flesh, severing limbs and heads to leave a shambles of body parts and blood over the steps. The remaining archers on the walls above cried out in fear and fled along the ramparts.
‘Cerberus,’ Heracles called, before it could chase after them.
The dog turned its snarling heads towards him, the red eyes glowering fiercely. But it was obedient to his command and followed him as he ran towards the palace. He followed the road round to the left, where the battlements formed a narrow killing zone with the outer wall of the citadel. At the far end was another set of gates. They were open, with a spearman standing guard on either side.
Seeing Heracles, they sprang into life and ran back through the gates. Before they could close them, his bow was in his hand and an arrow notched in the string. The first man fell with the shaft protruding from the base of his throat. The other abandoned the half-closed gate and, seeing Cerberus at Heracles’s shoulder, gave a cry of dismay and fled.
The gate led into a walled court. Another gate at the far end had been left open by the terrified guard. Heracles passed through it into a small stable yard, where two horses had been hitched to a wagon loaded with wooden caskets. As Cerberus shouldered its way through the narrow entrance, the terrified creatures whinnied and rose up on their hind legs, beating at the air with their hooves. The moment the hound had cleared the gate, they dashed through it, pulling the wagon behind them. One of the boxes fell off the back and spilled its golden contents over the cobblestones. Eurystheus’s wealth, Heracles guessed, packed up and ready for him to flee the city with. Now it would be poured out over the streets of Tiryns as the wagon bounced along behind the panicked horses, to be snatched up by the rebel mob besieging the citadel.
He passed through a roofed portico, into the large courtyard beyond. It was overlooked by a tall, brightly painted statue of Hera, seated on a throne before the entrance to her temple. The crude effigy seemed to stare at him with loathing, as if possessed by the spiteful goddess herself. He stared back and smiled, knowing that victory was finally within his grasp.
Then he caught a movement to his right. Four soldiers emerged from the small courtyard before the great hall. They wore bronze armour and domed helmets, with tall shields on their arms and long spears in their hands, the points aimed at Heracles. These were Eurystheus’s personal bodyguard, handpicked from the best of his army. But as they saw Cerberus enter the courtyard behind him, they shouted in terror and fell back. One gathered his wits quicker than the others and hurled his spear at the monster. As the bronze point sank into its chest, the shaft burst into flames, crumbling to ashes and leaving the hound unharmed. It responded with an angry roar that shook the surrounding colonnade and brought several pillars crashing to the ground. Leaping forward, it knocked the soldier to the ground, pinning him there with its great paws. He screamed briefly, then the beast closed its jaws over his head and tore it from his body. His comrades threw down their weapons and ran into the temple.
‘Leave them,’ Heracles commanded, as Cerberus seemed ready to pursue the fleeing warriors.
He strode into the final courtyard and stood before the gates to the great hall, which the soldiers had been guarding. They were shut, but despite the din from the battle in the streets below, Heracles could hear raised voices behind them. Ordering Cerberus to remain outside, he slipped the bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow. Then he pushed one of the doors open and stepped inside.
The great hall was cool and shadowy. Two rows of columns marched down its centre, their curved flanks lit orange by the flames in the hearth. At the far end was a dais with a single, high-backed chair that shimmered in the heat from the fire. A group of men were gathered before it, none of them aware of Heracles’s entry.
Tydeus stood with his plumed helmet in his hand, facing a short, pot-bellied man in rich woollen robes. Eurystheus’s golden crown had slipped slightly on his head and he was gripping Tydeus’s elbow.
‘Surely there’s something you can do? Don’t you have any reserves?’
‘A third slipped away when they saw the hound,’ Tydeus replied. ‘They haven’t the stomach to face such a creature – and having set eyes on it, for once I don’t blame them. You have no choice, my lord. You must leave at once.’
‘But this is my kingdom. Mine, Tydeus, not that rabble’s! What about these men? You said that they were fierce warriors when you hired them – that they’d provide some backbone to the army.’
‘They’re good men – the best – but they’re not fools. They’re here to keep you alive, and that’s what they’ll do. If you can reach Mycenae, you have men there who can take this city back for you. But right now, you have to leave before it’s too late. I’ve had a wagon loaded with the palace treasures. If you put on this old cloak, my lord, we should be able to ride out of the side gate unnoticed.’
‘How typical of you, cousin,’ Heracles announced, ‘to run away at the first sign of danger.’
He raised his bow and took aim in the gloom. The string sang loudly and one of the mercenaries let out a cry and fell. Eurystheus dived behind the cover of his throne. Tydeus shouted orders and his band of mercenaries slipped their shields from their shoulders and dispersed among the columns, though not before another of their number dropped dead with a poisoned arrow in his shoulder.
Heracles fitted another and dropped to one knee, watching the shadows for movement. Then he heard the twang of a bowstring and instinctively ducked his head. An arrow whistled through the air above him and quivered as it buried itself in the door. Quickly, he backed into the corner of the great hall, where the darkness offered him cover. Wit
h narrowed eyes, he studied the broad columns and caught glimpses of men’s backs and arms as they shifted position, but there was no sign of the archer. The mercenaries called to each other in harsh voices, agreeing a plan of attack, though their dialects were too thick for him to discern more than a few words. Then a head appeared from behind a column and another arrow sped towards him. It tugged at the mane of his lion skin – missing his left eye by a couple of fingers’ breadth – and broke against the wall behind him. Whoever the bowman was, he was skilled to have picked out his target from the gloom in a matter of a heartbeat and almost found his mark. But Heracles now knew where he was.
He edged along the wall, his bow at the ready. If he were Tydeus, he knew exactly what he would do, so he readied his bow and waited for the archer to reappear.
A shout announced the attack he had been expecting. Several men left the cover of the columns and ran towards him, shields held out before them. At the same time, the archer leaned around the other side of the pillar Heracles had been watching, his bowstring pulled back to his cheek. Heracles fired first, hitting him below the armpit. The man’s arrow flew up into the shadows of the high ceiling, and he fell in a heap at the base of the column.
Heracles fitted another arrow and shot it into the eye of one of the charging mercenaries. The man was thrown back by the impact and sprawled across the flagstones, tripping the man behind him. Dropping the bow, Heracles snatched his club from his belt and smashed it into the shield of the nearest attacker, shattering the wicker frame and breaking the man’s upper arm. He cried out as he fell back, his sword dropping to the floor with a clang.
Four others now formed a ring around him, their spear points levelled at his chest. They held back, cautious of his fierce strength, yet confident of their own experience and fighting abilities. The tallest had a slate-grey beard and was missing most of his right ear. He spat an insult in his own dialect and lunged with his spear. At the same time, a short, barrel-chested man on the far left of the line raised his shield and attacked.
Heracles swept the greybeard’s weapon aside with his club and kicked out at his shield, sending him tumbling backwards. The second man thrust his spear at Heracles’s exposed flank. Heracles caught it in his other hand and pulled the weapon towards himself, dragging the man with it. As the other two charged at him, he threw the crook of his arm around the barrel-chested man’s neck and dragged him across his own body. His comrades’ weapons pierced his stomach with such force that Heracles had to push himself backwards before the spear points passed through into his own torso.
Three other mercenaries ran at him from the shadows. He swung his club in an uppercut that crushed the jaw of one, throwing his head back with a snap. As he fell against the others, Heracles ran towards the doors. The sunshine outside was blinding as he burst from the gloom of the great hall. At first he could not see Cerberus, and felt a stab of panic that the hound had gone. Then he saw the monster in the square before the Temple of Hera, where it was devouring the remains of the soldier it had killed.
A shout warned him that the mercenaries had pursued him from the great hall. He turned to see five men form a line before the doors, with Tydeus standing behind them. There was no sign of Eurystheus.
‘For a moment I thought you were running away,’ Tydeus said. ‘That would have been a disappointment.’
‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,’ Heracles replied, stepping back to the gateway that led out to the temple square. ‘And you can’t surround me out here. You’ll have to fight me one by one.’
‘It only needs one of us,’ said the man with the grey beard. ‘I’m going to make you pay for the deaths of my friends.’
He ran forward, swinging his sword at Heracles’s neck. Heracles covered his forearm with his cloak and raised it to meet the blow. The lion’s pelt turned the blade and his densely packed muscles absorbed much of the force, though they did not stop the bruising pain. He swept his club into the lower edge of his opponent’s shield, smashing through the hide into his knee. The man cried out pitifully as he fell, his shattered leg twisted to one side. Heracles kicked him hard in the face, knocking him unconscious.
The others rushed at him. He fell back through the doorway, snapping the first mercenary’s spear in half with a swipe of his club. A second spear bit into his left hip, cutting through the tunic and opening up the flesh. He roared at the pain and turned on his attacker, pulling the spear from his grip. The man thrust his shield at Heracles, reaching for his sword at the same time. Crumpling the shield with a blow from his club, Heracles grabbed the man’s shoulder and drove his forehead into the bridge of his nose. The mercenary gave a muffled grunt and collapsed, his face a mask of blood.
The second attacker threw away his broken spear and drew his sword. He punched his shield into Heracles’s face, sending him flailing backwards into the open space of the square. Leaping after him, he raised his sword and brought it down in a sweeping cut. Heracles stopped the blade with his club, pushing it back until they were face to face, before driving his knee hard and fast into his opponent’s groin. The man folded over and Heracles brought his club down on his skull, splattering his brains over his thighs.
Kicking the body away, he looked up at the last two mercenaries. Hardened warriors though they were, they had had enough. They looked aghast at the enormous figure of Cerberus – still feeding on the body of their comrade – then turned and ran through the gateway that led to the stables.
Now only Tydeus remained. He carried no shield and his sword was still in its scabbard. He eyed Cerberus with caution, before turning his gaze on Heracles.
‘The gods are with you,’ he said. ‘It seems they always have been. And who am I to argue with the gods? So if you’ve come to kill Eurystheus, then you’re welcome to the craven dog. I won’t stop you.’
He made towards the stables, but Heracles blocked his way.
‘I’m not here to kill my cousin,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten I swore never to harm him? But I never swore not to harm you, Tydeus.’
‘I’ve no argument with you, Heracles. Go and speak to Eurystheus, if you wish, but let me pass. There’s no need for further bloodshed.’
‘Just like there was no need to burn the hovels in the outer city,’ Heracles retorted. ‘Or kill innocent men, women and children, and nail their bodies to the doors of their homes. Did you think I’d forgotten that?’
Tydeus drew his sword.
‘Have it your way.’
He lunged, the point of his sword finding Heracles’s shoulder before he could turn away. A second thrust would have sliced open his stomach, had Heracles not twisted aside and covered himself with the lion’s pelt. But before Tydeus could step back from the attack, Heracles’s club was sweeping towards his head. The captain of the guard leaned back and the gnarled wood passed over him, missing his face by a hand’s breadth.
With a snarl of anger, he sprang forward, driving his sword at Heracles’s groin. Heracles parried, knocking the blade aside and arcing his club towards Tydeus’s chest. Jumping back, Tydeus took his sword in both hands and swung at Heracles’s head, forcing him to twist to his left. The wound in his hip gave way and he staggered backwards. Seeing his weakness, Tydeus attacked again, always on Heracles’s right side so that he was compelled to pivot on his left leg. A final lunge forced him back again, and with a shout he tripped over the body of one of the mercenaries and fell back onto the flagstones. His club fell from his fingers and rolled away.
Tydeus stood over him triumphantly, his sword raised for the killing blow. Then Heracles stared wide-eyed at something behind him.
‘Cerberus!’ he shouted.
Tydeus turned, only to see that the hound was still by the entrance to the temple, each of its mouths gnawing on a human limb. In the same moment, Heracles kicked his legs from under him. Tydeus fell and Heracles threw himself on top of him. Grabbing his forearm, he smashed it repeatedly against the flagstones until the sword fell from his grip with
a clatter. Then Heracles’s hands were on his throat, his fingers closing slowly and irresistibly around the soft flesh. Tydeus resisted, gripping his attacker’s wrists and trying to tear his hands away. But Heracles barely noticed his efforts as he watched his face turn red and his eyes bulge in their sockets, until, with a final exhalation of breath, Tydeus’s grip on his wrists weakened and the life emptied out of him.
With blood running down from his shoulder and thigh, Heracles pushed himself wearily to his feet and looked at the hound.
‘Come,’ he said.
He returned to the great hall, his footsteps echoing from the walls. The sound was followed by the soft padding of Cerberus’s feet and the tap of his claws on the stone floor. But there was no sign of the king.
‘Eurystheus!’ he shouted. ‘Show yourself. Declare the final labour complete and I promise you I will leave Tiryns and never return.’
There was no answer. He walked the length of the room, past the hearth and the rows of pillars to the dais. He saw the lifeless bodies of the mercenaries he had slain and heard an unconscious groan from the man whose arm he had broken, but Eurystheus was not there. He threw open the rear doors of the hall and stepped out onto the terrace from which the king and his advisers had so often stared down at him on the streets of the citadel below. But it, too, was empty.
Then he heard a whimper. Turning on his heel, he looked back into the darkness of the hall. Cerberus stood at the far end of the hearth, his black fur absorbing the light from the flames so that he was barely distinguishable from the shadows behind. He looked again at the body of the man he had wounded, but he lay still: the sound had not come from him. Then his eyes fell on a large pithos in the near corner of the hall. He had barely noticed it on his few previous visits, but now it loomed large in his sight. A simple clay jar, big enough to hold wine for a night of feasting. Big enough to hold a man.
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