For the Immortal

by Emily Hauser

  I held his gaze as the shadows of the torches passed over his face. ‘You know I am always truthful with you, father,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘I have considered it. And I do believe,’ I nodded, as if to confirm it, ‘that this is the only way to save Alexander.’

  He let out a breath, his eyes moving from me to Alcides. Then he spread his hands wide till the ring-gems, carnelian, red jasper and agate, glimmered like embers in the firelight.

  ‘Very well, then. You must go.’

  Alcides knelt to kiss my father’s hand, and when he stood I saw his eyes were burning, kindled by the prospect of a quest and glory. ‘I will perform the labour as I have the others,’ he said. ‘I will not fail.’

  My father seemed not to hear him. ‘But if the Amazons do not have the herbs you seek, daughter,’ he said, his gaze concentrated on me, the fixed stare of a general marshalling his troops, ‘then I pray Alcides seeks them out as the final labour of the twelve – whatever he has to do. You may say, Alcides, I gave the task to you before you left. I do not wish anyone to know the true reason for your journey, lest the news of Alexander’s illness be used against us.’

  I bowed my head, even as Alcides beside me tensed – thinking, always, of his glory. I could almost hear his thoughts: The end of my labours. ‘Of course, father. As you say.’

  ‘And, Admete.’ He held out his hand and drew me towards him. Close to, he looked wearier and older than ever, his eyebrows threaded with grey and the skin around his eyes creased in many folds. ‘I cannot prevent you seeking your mother. You are of the age now that she was when I wedded her, old enough to guide your own actions – but I give you this warning.’ He lowered his voice beneath the sound of the fire spitting on the hearth, though I doubted whether Alcides, deep in contemplation of his labours, would hear him. ‘She left Greece because she did not belong here, because she could not tame her Amazon spirit. Do not think that you will find yourself in her.’

  I nodded, not a little startled by his bluntness. Then I stepped back.

  ‘And so – do we prepare the voyage?’ Alcides was almost bounding on his toes beside me.

  My father pressed himself to stand, hands braced on the arms of the throne. ‘Yes,’ he said, stepping from the dais and placing an arm around my shoulders, holding me to him. I felt myself ache at the prospect of leaving him, yet – at the same time – thrill to be gone. ‘We prepare the voyage at once.’

  King and Queen of the Gods

  Mount Olympus

  The afternoon sunlight slants into Hera’s chamber, gilding the cedarwood chests and stools, as the queen of the gods gathers her cloak and fastens it around her neck. Iris is sitting on the edge of her bed, swinging her legs and frowning. ‘Remind me again why you are so certain that Calliope stole the apples.’

  Hera’s fingers fumble at the clasp. ‘Since when do you take such an interest?’

  Iris shrugs, picking at the woollen coverlet. ‘I am your messenger, am I not?’ She looks up at Hera with a veiled expression and a twist to her mouth that might be sardonic. ‘I have to take an interest in all your affairs.’

  Hera glares at her, as if to determine whether or not Iris is trying to provoke her. Seeming to decide in her favour, she moves to the bronze mirror propped on her dressing-table and, bending to fasten the cloak properly, she says, ‘Because she left Olympus.’

  ‘And surely no god would leave Olympus except for some devious purpose,’ Iris says.

  ‘Exactly.’ Hera chooses to ignore the irony in Iris’s voice. ‘She has been gone for four months – four! The other Muses – Melpomene, Erato, Clio and the rest,’ she tuts, ‘they have such forgettable names – all say they have no idea where she is, or why she is gone.’ She straightens and pats her hair, which is twisted on her head beneath her oak-wreath crown. ‘I swear that no Muse would flee Olympus if it were not for some scheme. They are crafty tricksters, all of them, with their fine words and their story-telling and the way they make truth out of lies.’ She wrinkles her nose, and picks up a hairpin, twisting a loose curl around her finger and sliding it neatly into her bun.

  ‘And this is sufficient reason to follow her?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Hera says, and as she turns to Iris she is smiling, her hands spread wide, like an orator making an unassailable point. ‘You see, Hermes told me she has the golden apples.’

  ‘What?’ Iris stops picking at the coverlet and gives Hera her full attention at last. She narrows her eyes. ‘And you trust Hermes?’

  Hera shrugs. ‘His story is convincing. He says he saw Calliope at the tree, pulling three of them from the branches on the night that Zeus and I were married.’

  ‘Why would he tell you? You do not suspect him of sending you on a false trail?’

  ‘No,’ Hera says, peering in the mirror as she places another pin. ‘You see, Hermes is such a trickster that I think he fully anticipated I wouldn’t believe him and, on the off-chance that I did, I imagine he thought it would be a good laugh to set me after Calliope. Loyalty,’ she fixes the pin into her hair and straightens up, ‘is not Hermes’ strong suit.’

  Iris cocks her head to one side, considering. ‘You have a point.’

  Silence falls between them as Hera ties her girdle around her waist, and all that can be heard is the cooing of the doves in the trees beyond the window and the humming cicadas.

  ‘And if Calliope has the apples, you want them because …?’

  ‘Because no one steals from the queen of the gods,’ Hera says, rounding on Iris, her eyes flashing and her tone suddenly sharp. ‘No one. Every golden apple was a gift of Earth and belongs to me and me alone –’

  ‘You mean, you and Zeus.’ Iris corrects her, eyebrows arched.

  ‘– and I will not have it said that I will put up with petty theft!’

  Iris holds up her hands as she slips off the bed and walks over to Hera, then helps to draw her hood over her head. ‘I simply thought you would be more occupied with Hercules. Given that he’s Zeus’ son.’

  Hera waves her away. ‘Hercules will set up his own sword to fall upon,’ she says, walking towards the door and opening it, so that a chink of golden sunlight slices across the marble floor. ‘He is set on a voyage for the Amazons and,’ a smile glimmers on her lips, ‘if they do not deal with him themselves, I have a plan to sort him out.’

  Iris holds the door for her and, with a brief nod, Hera steps out into the corridor, her cloak tucked around her and her ankles flashing as she makes her way to the edge of Olympus, after Calliope.

  Iris lingers, watching her retreating back, one arm twisted around the doorpost. ‘Oh, I do not doubt that you have.’

  The king of the gods turns to his messenger, where they are both crouching hidden in a box hedge in Hera’s garden, watching her pass.

  ‘So,’ Zeus whispers, ‘you found a way to distract her?’

  Hermes nods, sending a shower of scented leaves over them both. ‘Told her about Calliope and the golden apples,’ he mutters. ‘It was the only thing I could come up with.’

  ‘You don’t think Calliope will—’

  ‘Mind?’ Hermes scratches his chin. ‘I doubt it. I mean, she expected Hera to come after her some time – that no-one-steals-from-the-queen-of-the-gods nonsense. Calliope knew it was only a matter of time. And it’s the perfect distraction, anyway. Hera’s been obsessed with her authority ever since you made her queen of the gods. I reckon it’s the only thing she cares about as much as … well,’ his eyes slide sideways to Zeus, ‘your marriage.’

  Zeus flicks a spider from the branch before him. It sails into the air on a silver string. ‘You know,’ he says, turning to Hermes, ‘I don’t understand it. It’s only one affair. And, yes, I suppose Alcmene was my first, other than Hera, but what about the others, after Alcmene? I don’t know why she’s so upset.’

  Hermes winks. ‘Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know about the others.’

  ‘Well, I was wise to hide them, wasn’t I,’ says Zeus, ‘if th
is is how she reacts? Going after my son, preventing his immortality – what does she mean by it?’

  ‘I’d say,’ Hermes replies, in a mock-serious tone, ‘that she probably means to stop you lying with other women. But,’ he nudges Zeus with his elbow, dislodging a few more leaves, ‘what does it matter? We have her out of the way so we can give Hercules a little help. No problem, is there?’

  But Zeus’ cheeks are flushed. ‘It’s just that – well, I don’t like to admit it, Hermes—’ He stutters into silence. ‘I miss Hera,’ he says.

  ‘Oh.’ Hermes is taken aback. This is not his area of expertise. ‘Well, maybe you should try Aphrodite …’

  ‘It’s just …’ Zeus says, leaning against a nearby bough and curling his beard around one finger, a wistful expression on his face ‘… it’s not that Alcmene and the others weren’t fun, but nobody likes change. And,’ the red flush creeps up his forehead, ‘she hasn’t – you know – we haven’t … since she found out Hercules is mine. Since she heard the oracle at Delphi.’

  Hermes gives a low whistle. ‘That’s a long time.’

  ‘But,’ Zeus sighs, ‘it’s also too much fun provoking her to stop.’

  ‘Now, that I do understand. Honestly,’ Hermes holds up his hands, ‘nothing on Olympus – nothing – matches Hera’s indignant fury for comedy value.’

  He makes to back out of the hedge, still chuckling, but Zeus catches him by the wrist, and not a moment too soon. Iris has just emerged from Hera’s chambers and is walking along the portico that runs the length of the garden, her expression thoughtful.

  The two gods wait in silence for her to pass, hardly moving, and an insect buzzes between the branches, enjoying the warm spring afternoon.

  At last, the echoing slap of her sandals recedes into the distance. Zeus lets out the breath he has been holding. ‘You don’t think she heard?’

  Hermes shakes his head. ‘But we’d better be careful,’ he says quietly. ‘Look, we’ll deal with your marital problems another time. It’s about Hercules now, isn’t it?’

  Zeus purses his lips. ‘Yes. Hercules.’

  ‘So?’ Hermes lets the question hang between them. ‘You asked for a distraction for Hera.’ He waves a hand through the branches towards the portico where the queen of the gods and her messenger disappeared moments before. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘The eleventh labour,’ Zeus says, seeming to come to himself. ‘It’s a voyage to the Amazons.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hermes says, his interest caught. ‘The Amazons. I once had something of a dalliance with—’

  ‘We’ll need to ensure a fair voyage for him – make sure the journey is as smooth as possible,’ Zeus mutters, ignoring him. ‘I was thinking—’

  ‘Poseidon?’

  Hermes and Zeus exchange looks of understanding. Any god wishing to control the winds for a favoured mortal always makes Poseidon, god of the sea, their first port of call.

  ‘Not to worry. It’s done.’

  Zeus grasps his hand as they back out of the box bush and onto the grass of Hera’s garden, picking twigs and leaves from their hair.

  ‘Good lad,’ he says, setting his oak-leaf crown straight as Hermes brushes a beetle from his shoulder. ‘We’ll need a strong south-westerly to get Hercules to Scythia before Hera notices anything.’

  On Land and Sea

  Ἀδμήτη

  Admete

  Tiryns, Greece

  The Eighteenth Day of the Month of Sweet Wine, 1265 BC

  The moment had come. After a few days of rushed preparation – in which I had given Elais instructions in the herbs to be used for Alexander, and Alcides had gathered companions for our voyage – we were setting off, as I had barely allowed myself to hope we would.

  To the Amazons.

  To my mother.

  I was seated in the ship Alcides had commissioned for the voyage, a good-sized vessel with fifteen rowing-benches and a sail that billowed in the wind, like a swallow’s wing. I twisted around on the thwart – close to the back of the ship, so I would be out of the rowers’ way, though at present the wind was strong enough that we had no need of oars – and felt the breeze blow into my face, salt-filled and fresh. Tiryns rose behind me, with its high-built walls and gate-tower, the flanks of the hill beneath it covered with yellow-flowering broom. I hugged my knees to my chest, excitement and trepidation filling me in equal measure. My home. I felt an ache in my heart to lose it: the warm scents of the herbary, the humming of the bees in the herb-garden, all those places that had been the measure of my days, the boundary of my world. A lurch of fear clutched me as the image of Alexander, panting and writhing on his bed, rose before me. With a wave of sickness, I thought of cures I might have forgotten to try, preparations I had failed to impart to Elais, and for a moment I wished for nothing more than to turn the ship around and head back to the harbour where my youngest brothers were still gathered – I could make out the sandy fairness of Mentor’s hair as Perimedes ran after him, pelting him with pebbles.

  ‘Admete.’

  Alcides swung a leg over the rowing-bench before me. His hair was ruffled in the wind. ‘What? Such a melancholy expression!’ he exclaimed, bending to catch my hands, but I drew them away.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, chewing my lip.

  There was a moment’s silence, as the ropes slapped in the wind and the waves smacked the hull. ‘Oh, Alcides,’ I burst out, my gaze still on the walls of Tiryns, ‘have I made a terrible mistake?’

  He laid a hand on my shoulder, as if he knew that, given the chance, I would throw myself into the sea and swim for home to rid myself of this wretched feeling. ‘No,’ he said, and he grinned at me, cocksure as a sparrow. ‘Come, cease your doubting, Admete. This will be a great adventure, one of which they will speak for hundreds of years.’ He nudged me with an elbow. ‘You should learn not to be so cautious – surely your mother was not so!’

  ‘Surely not.’ I swallowed and blinked to clear the blurring of my eyes. ‘I have been thinking the same. Perhaps I am not courageous enough to follow her. Perhaps I should have stayed in Tiryns, where I belong. Perhaps there is too much Greek in me, after all.’

  He laughed, tilting his head back, his teeth white. ‘You think Greeks cannot be courageous? Have I not told you of my labours?’

  ‘Why, yes, you have,’ I said, sliding my eyes sideways at him and smiling a little in spite of myself. ‘Some hundred times, I believe. But – no – I mean,’ I bit my lip again, ‘I never told you, did I, why she left?’

  A wave burst into the hull, spraying us both with salt water as he frowned at me. ‘I thought it was because she and your father disagreed,’ he said. ‘You heard them quarrelling, did you not? You heard him telling her it was not proper for a queen of the Greeks to ride out all the day long. Was it not simply a marriage ill-made?’

  I shook my head. My throat constricted, such that I could not speak.

  ‘I think,’ I said at last, struggling to keep my voice even, my eyes fixed on the waves as they broke against the ship, ‘I think it was – I think she left because of me.’

  Another silence. A tern flew chattering overhead, an early visitor to the Greek skies and first herald of the summer months.

  ‘You know that is absurd.’

  I rounded on him, stung. ‘As absurd as doubting that the king of the gods will accept his own son?’

  A tinge flushed his cheeks to match the russet of his beard. He braced both hands against the thwart, and I watched the knuckles whiten. ‘You know it cannot be true.’

  ‘She chided me,’ I said. There was no one else in the world to whom I had told this, not even my father, and though my trust in Alcides was as fathom-deep as the waters over which we now sped, I found I could not meet his eyes for the shame of it, for the fear that I had left Greece when I should not. Fear that I might find her among the Amazons, and hear her confirm it: that I had not been enough to keep her. ‘The day before she left …’ my voice faltered ‘… she came upon me in my
chambers, where my maid was putting up my hair in the Greek style. My father had ordered it so, for an envoy had been sent to visit him from Sparta, and he wished me to be well presented. She sent the maid away, took out all the pins and ribbons and combed out the curls. Then she plaited it again, and told me that –’ I turned away, swallowing the sob that was threatening to break forth ‘– that I should be proud to be an Amazon. That she had not given up her own freedom to see me decked out in the chains of Greek finery. And then,’ I blinked hard, ‘when I awoke the next day, and found her gone, I ran all through the palace and over the hills of Argos looking for her, screaming for her, telling her how sorry I was and that I would wear my hair plaited always for her.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers curling around my hair. ‘Every day after that I ran down to the postern gate in the city walls and waited there for her, in case she returned, my breath catching in my chest at every ship coming into harbour – because perhaps this would be the one that brought her. But she never came.’

  I turned my gaze to Alcides, and saw that – thank the gods – he was not laughing at me. ‘And now,’ I said, my voice thin, ‘I fear that she was right.’

  He leant forwards and covered my hand with his own.

  ‘You have more courage than she ever did,’ he said, his eyes burning as they fixed on mine with a kind of quiet rage. ‘I swear it. You should have told me.’

  I shrugged, though the comfort of his words and his hand warmed me more than I could say. ‘I told you the most part.’

  ‘Admete,’ he said, ‘look at me. I will tell you a truth, and you must remember it. Though I have travelled far from Tiryns these past years, you are truly the most selfless person I have met.’ He waved away my rebuttal. ‘No, I am not trying to be kind. I speak the truth, and it comes but rarely so you should listen well.’ A smile twisted his lips. ‘If your mother left, it was for her reasons and hers alone, and none of your doing.’ He pressed my fingers between his own, then slid his hand into mine and pulled me to stand. ‘You will accompany me on this voyage,’ he said, gesturing with our clasped hands to the sail that flapped behind us. ‘You will find a cure for Alexander. You will see your mother and you will recognize, as I do, as your father has always done, that, Amazon or no, she was not a mother enough for you.’