Her favorite times were when they perched on top of the rainbow together, telling each other things. The little girl was growing very clever, and her quality of listening had a way of drawing the stories out of Iris. She would chatter by the hour, telling tales of the gods and goddesses, their loves and their quarrels, and their adventures among mortals. And Iole would listen and listen, and never forgot anything she heard.
But her favorite story was the one Iris told about herself—about the time she was abducted by the North Wind, and her fear and loathing of the brutal Boreas, and how she had grieved during her captivity, and how she had been rescued by the young Hercules. That was a story Iole could not get enough of; she made her mother tell it again and again, and if she changed a word, made her correct herself and tell it exactly the way she had told it the first time.
Iole, daughter of the rainbow, grew into a vivid girl—with curly red hair, golden skin, and jade-green eyes. Her short tunics were dyed in the wildflower colors that her mother cast into the sky. And when she followed her mother, sliding joyously down the arch of colors, people watching below thought that a piece of the rainbow was breaking off.
Many a night the girl dreamed of the huge shy youth who had rescued her mother and melted the snow with his blushes when she tried to thank him with a kiss. And Iole resolved to make herself known to Hercules before she was twelve years old. As it happened, though, she was to meet him sooner than she expected.
5
An Angry Goddess
Hera had summoned Hecate to Olympus. The two towering goddesses were conversing in the Garden of the Gods.
Hera said: “You know that Zeus has fettered us with a new law. No god, except for himself, of course, may kill more than five mortals a month. I, as Queen of the Gods, am allowed a larger quota—twelve. Now, that may sound sufficient but there’s a tricky clause to the law. A demigod’s life is valued at a much higher rate. And this is particularly irksome to me. I rarely concern myself with mortals; the chief targets of my wrath are demigods—as my husband well knows. For most demigods are his own children—by other females. That is why I hate them so. But I’m not allowed to kill any of these ill-begotten spawn without special permission from Zeus, who always denies me that permission.”
“Nevertheless,” said Hecate, “despite the law, demigods seem to be meeting with as many fatal accidents as they ever did.”
“Yes,” said Hera. “I’ve been able to contrive many such episodes. What I do is arrange for them to meet gigantic wild beasts and various monsters—encounters that they rarely survive. Which brings us to Hercules.”
“Yes, Hercules,” said Hecate. “We of the infernal regions have been observing his career with much distaste.”
“Distaste!” cried Hera. “Of all Zeus’s slimy sons I hate him the most. And am determined to kill him before the year is out.”
“Anything we can do to help?” asked Hecate.
“Indeed, yes. That is why I asked you to come here. So far he’s managed to vanquish everyone and everything I’ve sent against him—dragons and sea serpents and giants. What we need is something truly extraordinary in the way of monsters. And no one knows more about such matters than you do, oh Queen of Harpies.”
“Offhand I can think of two who might do the trick,” said Hecate. “The first that comes to mind is the Nemean Lion.”
“Lion?” said Hera scornfully. “No good against Hercules. He kills them like rabbits.”
“Not this one,” said Hecate. “The Nemean Lion is very special. Big as an elephant. Its teeth are ivory daggers, its claws like razor-sharp baling hooks. And its hide cannot be pierced by sword, spear, or arrow.”
“Sounds good,” said Hera.
“The second is even more deadly. It’s called the Hydra, and is the most dreadful of the monstrous brood spawned by Typhon and Echidna. It’s a dragon basically, but much larger, and has a hundred heads. And each of these heads has a hundred teeth—hollow teeth from which it squirts poison, the most potent ever known. One drop of this venom will burn a hole through a bronze breastplate and scorch flesh from bone, roasting the warrior inside his armor in a matter of seconds. The Hydra is so strong that even without poison it would be completely invincible. With one flail of its spiked tail it can scythe down a grove of trees or shatter a stone wall.”
“Sounds even better,” said Hera, smiling. “Hercules will meet the Hydra first, and I’ll save the lion for the next one on my hate list. I thank you, oh Hecate. Please do not hesitate to call upon me for any boon I may bestow.”
“I thank you, oh Queen,” said Hecate. “I’m sure the occasion will arise.”
“Farewell. Convey my greetings to my brother Hades.”
“Good hunting.”
6
Iole’s Plan
Iole, who had taught herself to speak with various animals, was frisking with a fawn that day, when a nymph came running up to tell her that Iris had come to the meadow. Iole dashed across the radiant grass, crying, “Mother! Mother!”
Passing through a fringe of trees she heard a sound of weeping, and was amazed to see that it was her mother—who never wept—sitting on a tree stump, sobbing.
“What’s the matter, Mother? Why are you crying?”
“I’m grieved to the heart, Iole.”
“Why … why?”
“Hercules is in dreadful danger,” whispered Iris.
“But he’s always in danger. That’s what he does, fights dangerous things … and always wins.”
“Not this time, I’m afraid.”
“Why not? Why not?”
“Well, you know that I serve Hera, who is Hercules’ worst enemy. And I have done this more willingly because I thought that one day I might learn something that would help him. And now I have. But what I’ve learned is so dreadful that I fear no one can help him. For the past few months, you see, Hera has been growing angrier and angrier. For not one of her attempts to kill Hercules has succeeded. Our brave young man has vanquished dragons, giants, and a murderous selection of wild beasts. And with every one of his triumphs Hera’s temper has grown worse. Yesterday she sent me to the Underworld to fetch Hecate—and a dreadful trip it is, my child. Oh what agonies down below; how those poor shades are tormented in that ghastly realm.… Anyway, I did find Hecate, and gave her Hera’s message. And when she came to Olympus this morning, I hid in the garden so that I might overhear their conversation. As I expected, Hera had sent for Hecate to seek her counsel. And that vicious Harpy was happy to oblige. She suggested two monsters that Hera might send against Hercules. And either one of them will finish him off.”
Iole had been stroking her mother’s head all this time, and Iris had stopped weeping. Now the girl asked, “Can you describe those monsters to me, Mother?”
And Iris did. Iole listened very carefully. When Iris had finished, the girl asked, “Which one is he to fight first?”
“Oh, the Hydra—because it’s the most deadly, and because Hera wants to kill our brave boy as soon as possible.”
“Mother, I have an idea. Did you say that this lion has a hide that no weapon can pierce?”
“So Hecate says, my child.”
“Listen then.…” And Iole began to explain her idea. But Iris clapped her hand over the girl’s mouth.
“Hush,” she whispered. “Not here! The vengeful Hera sends her tattle-birds everywhere. One of them may be hovering now, trying to hear what we say. And will fly back immediately to tell all she has heard. Come to the waterfall, Iole, where the sound of the falling water will cover your words.”
The rainbow goddess and her daughter raced over the meadow to the waterfall. So light footed were they, the grass seemed scarcely to bend. Standing by the fall then, Iole explained her idea.
“Very clever indeed,” said Iris. “But for it to work, Hera must change her schedule.”
“That is up to you, Mother. You must find the wit to persuade her.”
“Alas, my child, you get your beauty from
me, but I had no wit to bequeath you. You get that from your father—who has little else to recommend him.”
Iole furrowed her smooth brow, then smiled. “Mother, Mother, I think I know a way to persuade Hera. This is what you must say.”
She glanced up to make sure no tattle-bird was hovering, then, taking no chances, she put her mouth to her mother’s ear and whispered.…
“Yes, that might work,” murmured Iris. “But let’s go over it again a few times. Tell me exactly what to say.”
“I will, Mother. And we’ll rehearse it again and again until you get it right.”
On Olympus the next day, Iris said to Hera, “I admire you for many things, my Queen, but most of all, perhaps, for your merciful nature.”
Hera stared at her in astonishment. Being so powerful and dangerous a goddess, she was used to overblown compliments, even from those who loathed her. But the most ardent flatterer had never called her merciful.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I am delighted to know that you plan to spare Hercules much suffering.”
“Do I? How?”
“Well,” said Iris, “from my perch in the sky I have been able to observe both the Nemean Lion and the Hydra. They are both fearsome, of course, but of the two, the Hydra is worse. It’s so poisonous that hounds sniffing at its footprints keel over and die. A single bite from any one of its ten thousand teeth kills instantly. Hercules won’t last the wink of an eye against the Hydra, but against the Nemean Lion he would last longer. He could not prevail; he would be mauled, clawed, chewed. The lion, in fact, would play with him as a cat does a mouse, and he would die in agony. But now, thanks to your tender heart, he will be spared that slow anguish. For he will not have to meet the lion, according to your plans. The Hydra will kill him first, and so quickly, so painlessly.”
“Why is his fate of such interest to you?”
“Well, my Queen, you know that he saved me once, some years ago, while he was still a lad. When the North Wind abducted me, it was Hercules who came after us, who penetrated those icy wastes, combated legions of frost demons—had the incredible bravery to assault the North Wind himself, and was able to carry me back to safety. My heart swells with gratitude whenever I think of him.”
“And mine with loathing,” cried Hera. “Do you not know that he whom you praise is the creature I find most hateful in the entire world?”
“I know you do, Hera, I know you do. That is why I so much admire your compassion in allowing him you loathe so much to avoid great suffering by pitting him against the Hydra before he has to meet the terrible lion.”
“I am afraid you have done your friend an ill service by speaking thus,” said Hera, letting every word drop from her lips like distilled poison. “I have decided to reverse the order of events. He shall be thrown into the path of the lion first. Shall know those ripping talons, those enormous jaws full of dagger teeth. He shall be played with—slowly, excruciatingly—as a cat entertains itself with a mouse before killing it. Now, get out of my sight! I am very angry with you for still remembering with affection this mortal whom I hate and loathe and despise. Go—before you feel the full weight of my displeasure!”
Iris moved swiftly. Her draperies were a blur of color as she vanished from Hera’s sight. But when she was alone, she laughed aloud. For she had accomplished her purpose. She had to follow this up, however, by making sure that Hercules would know what to do when he met the lion. She sped off then to find her daughter.
7
Blood Price
Zeus looked down upon earth and was displeased. He summoned Hermes and said: “I need your advice, Son. I have been observing my human herds and do not like what I see. The mortals I have most favored seem to be the most murderous. Kings, for example; they’re always killing someone, including members of their own family.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hermes. “To be a king’s brother these days is almost fatal, particularly if you’re the one next in line to the throne.”
“It’s getting monotonous, this mayhem,” said Zeus. “How do you propose that I deal with it?”
“Blood price,” said Hermes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Honored Sire, I propose that you pass an edict forbidding murder within a family and impose a heavy fine upon anyone breaking that law.”
“Fine? For a king?” exclaimed Zeus. “They have vast treasuries, and if they run short of funds, they simply rob their subjects through new taxes. No fine will discourage any king from braining his brother with a scepter.”
“Make the penalty heavier then. Make your law say that anyone killing any member of his family within the second degree of cousinship must place himself in servitude to the head of that family for an entire year.”
“But,” said Zeus, “suppose a king, who is automatically head of his family, does the killing. Whom would he serve?”
“A neighboring king,” said Hermes. “Which, by the nature of things, would put him at considerable risk.”
Zeus guffawed. “There’s a lot of meat in your idea, Son. I can see trouble administering such a law, but we’ll work things out as we go along.”
Hera was pleased by this new edict. Not that she had any distaste for killing, but she saw how the provisions of this law might help to solve her most urgent problem.
For she fully expected that one of the monsters proposed by Hecate would put an end to Hercules. His death, however, would cause a great sensation on earth, and in heaven. And she, Hera, known by all to have sworn vengeance against Hercules, would surely be suspected by Zeus, whose suspicions always hardened into certainty, and such certainties always turned into violence.
What she needed then was to contrive the young hero’s death in a way that would absolve her of blame. And the new law suggested such a way.
She followed Hercules one day when he went out into the woods. For she had studied his habits and knew that he spent part of each morning practicing archery and spear throwing. She guided him over the Theban frontier into Mycenae, a realm ruled by his cousin, King Eurystheus. She hovered invisibly as he shot arrows at a tree, bending the bow only halfway, for his full-armed pull would send an arrow through the tree. His hand flashed from quiver to bowstring, notching each shaft and letting it fly … each one planting itself exactly above the other so that a line of arrows, precisely one inch apart, climbed the tree.
While he was doing this, Hera had been misdirecting a party of young Mycenaeans out hunting. Princes they were, brothers and cousins of Eurystheus, the king. The merry youths were riding with a loose rein, laughing and chatting as their horses picked their way among the trees. Hera guided the horses toward Hercules, brought them within bowshot, and, as the archer shot his last arrow, Hera deflected it in midflight. It sailed past the tree and into the chest of a young prince, killing him instantly.
Hercules was horrified. He had no way of knowing that Hera had deflected his arrow; the idea never occurred to him. Innocently, he thought that he had missed his aim, that his own poorly shot arrow had killed the prince. Roaring with grief, he burst out of the brush and rushed to where the man lay, tore open his tunic, and examined the wound. But the man was dead.
The others sat their horses in utter shock, staring at the gigantic young stranger, who was shouting and sobbing, accusing himself of criminal carelessness, and offering to pay the blood price.
Hera, still hovering invisibly, uttered a snarling laugh. “Now,” she said to herself, “I’ll visit King Eurystheus in a dream and instruct him to extort the blood price from Hercules—to become, in fact, his taskmaster for the space of a year. But it won’t take a year, not even a month. For the first task I’ll make him give the lout will be to slay the Nemean Lion. And we know who’ll slay whom. Yes, Hercules will die now, and his death will be entirely legal. No one will be able to blame me.”
8
New Girl at the Palace
Iris and Iole perched on the rainbow, gazing down at a
drenched meadow sparkling in the slanting rays of the sun. The daughter looked excited; her mother was trying to look cheerful.
“It won’t do,” said Iris. “You’re simply too vivid to pass unnoticed in the Mycenaean court. We’ll have to tone you down, my girl.”
“How?”
“Can’t do much about your eyes or your skin. But we’ll have to darken your hair.”
“Whatever you say, Mother.”
“You’ll be able to wash the dye out when you come home …”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not.”
“Let’s slide down and get you attended to by the nymphs.”
They slid down the arch of colors, but neither of them sang joyously this time. When they reached the meadow and were greeted by the nymphs, Iris spoke privately to Numa, who listened earnestly and then took Iole’s arm and led her to the far end of the glade where the dyeing vats stood.
The nymph dropped a handful of roots into clear boiling water. The water thickened, foamed, went black. Numa took a pair of silver shears and began to cut Iole’s hair. It was a glorious red-gold mane, hanging down to her waist. Numa cut it so that it barely reached the girl’s shoulders, then cut bangs. Finally, when the dye had cooled, she blackened Iole’s hair.
Iole dashed to a stream, knelt, and looked at herself. She squealed in excitement and raced across the meadow to Iris. “Mother, Mother, look!”
Iris took her daughter by the shoulders and gazed down at her, winking back a tear.
“How do I look, Mother?”
“Like a cat, my dear. With those black bangs and jade-green eyes you look exactly like an Egyptian temple cat.”
“But quite unnoticeable, don’t you think? I’ll be able to slink around the Mycenaean court like a shadow and help Hercules all I please without anyone knowing. Don’t you think so, Mother? Who pays much attention to a black cat, after all?”
“But you will be very careful, won’t you, my child? Eurystheus is an exceedingly cruel king. And while he’s very stupid himself, he’s surrounded by crafty councillors. So take no unnecessary chances.”
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two Page 3