by Glyn Iliffe
‘What treachery is this, Dresos?’ he called, as he moved the aim of his arrow around the circle of men. ‘Admetus said you were trustworthy.’
‘And so I am,’ the captain replied. ‘I have done everything the king ordered – namely, to let these men aboard my ship.’
‘It’s your faith in the king that was misjudged,’ said the man with whom Heracles had shared his bench. ‘He offered you an escort to Tirida, but you said you were forbidden from asking for help. So we decided we would come anyway, whether you asked us or not.’
The man tipped his hood back. It was Xuthus, one of the guards from Admetus’s palace. One by one, the other men lowered their hoods. Carnus was there – the old soldier he had recognized at the gates of Pherae – and many others, all of whom had fought beside him in the war to liberate Thebes. They grinned at him, pleased both with the success of their ploy and the fact that they were reunited with their old friend and comrade. Iolaus lowered his sword and looked at his uncle in confusion. But Heracles’s fierce expression had given way to a broad smile. He returned the arrow to the quiver and shouldered his bow.
‘Damn you all,’ he said, ‘but it’s good to see you again.’
He walked forward and embraced Xuthus, then each of his old companions in turn. There were twenty in all, not counting the handful of men that crewed Dresos’s ship; and of their number, there was only one that he did not know. He was a tall, bony-looking youth of around the same age as Iolaus, who looked almost terrified as he approached Heracles and offered him his hand. His grip was weak and uncertain.
‘My father fought with you against King Erginus,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘He was killed in the battle.’
‘And do you and your father have names?’
‘I am Abderus, sir. Thromius’s son.’
Heracles looked questioningly at Xuthus.
‘We found him hiding in the hold just a few moments ago.’
‘Then we have to turn back. It’s bad enough that you men have come along uninvited, but I can’t act as nursemaid to a child.’
‘He’s the same age as I am,’ Iolaus protested. ‘You’ve never complained about nursemaiding me.’
‘That’s different. You’re my squire. Dresos, take the ship back to Pherae. I need to offload this stowaway.’
Dresos shook his head.
‘I have a voyage to complete and goods to trade. You can throw the boy overboard for all I care, but I’m not turning back now.’
Chapter Fifteen
TIRIDA
The journey was slow, with the merchant ship calling at several harbours on its route along the northern coast of the Aegean. Heracles’s eagerness to reach Tirida soon settled into boredom and frustration. He helped Dresos and his crew unload cargoes to trade at small coastal towns, then load up new ones to trade at the next town, or, ultimately, to take on to Troy, the wealthiest city on the Aegean seaboard. Yet he was pleased to have the company of Xuthus, Carnus and the others, with whom he would spend long evenings – after the ship had anchored for the night – reminiscing about past exploits as they sat round blazing fires on lonely beaches. Iolaus and Abderus would listen for a while, before wandering off together or falling asleep. Dresos and his men kept their own company.
Then, one morning, the merchant captain called Heracles to join him in the helm.
‘Tirida,’ he said, pointing to a low mountain on the other side of a short neck of land. ‘Home of the Bistones. I’ll land you and the others at the harbour there, but we won’t stay. Diomedes’s people have nothing to trade, because all they make is war. Are you sure you won’t change your mind? Why not come with us to Troy? It’s a city beyond your wildest imaginings, and we’d be glad of your protection.’
‘No, thank you,’ Heracles replied.
‘Have you thought any more about how you’ll return to Pherae? Merchants don’t stop at Tirida – we give it a wide berth – and the roads back west are rugged and stalked by bandits.’
‘Something will present itself.’
Heracles leaned against the bow rail and stared at the mountain. It had a brown, domed peak and was skirted by dense forests of pine. Two ridges thrust southwards, and as the galley rounded the peninsula, he could see they formed a narrow valley that led down to the shore. The tips of each arm of the mountain curled back in towards each other to create a large, natural harbour. A few stone huts had been built along the water’s edge and trails of smoke slanted eastwards with the wind. Two naked masts – too big for fishing vessels – were visible in the small port, which suggested Tirida was not entirely cut off from the sea. But as Dresos’s ship drew closer to the harbour and he ordered the sail to be furled and the oars to be lowered, they saw that these were not trading vessels, but craft fitted out for war. Pirate ships.
‘There are men onboard one of them,’ Dresos said. ‘If we hadn’t made a course directly for their harbour, she’d already be rowing out on her way to intercept us. In fact, if I wasn’t sure I could outrun a great hulk like her, I’d have made you swim ashore.’
Heracles did not respond. He was too interested in the strange-looking crew and the other curious figures who had gathered along the top of the beach. Many of the men were bare-chested or wore animal skins over their shoulders. Their black hair was uniformly combed back from their foreheads and braided from the napes of their necks into long tails, which hung down to the middle of their backs. Similarly, their beards were long and worn in one or two plaits from beneath their chins. All carried half-moon shields made from oxhide and slung across their backs or over their shoulders, with a tall spear or a bow in their hands and a short sword in their belts. Their expressions were fierce and unwelcoming, and Heracles was only surprised that the archers among them had not already sent over a volley of arrows. But none moved or made a sound.
As the merchant galley slipped into the harbour, five little boats came out to meet it, each rowed by a woman dressed in animal furs.
‘Well, it’s more of a welcome than I’d hoped for,’ Dresos said. ‘May the gods protect you, my friend.’
Heracles climbed down into the first of the boats, accompanied by Iolaus, Abderus and Xuthus. The stern-faced oarswoman refused to look at them as she rowed them to the shore. To the left of the wide harbour was the mouth of a river that ran down from the valley. Its banks were lined by dense belts of trees, from which Heracles could hear the rapid beating of hooves and the clatter of wheels. As the boat hit the sand and the woman leaped out, a chariot pulled by a team of four horses came hurtling out from the shade of the wood and rode along the top of the beach towards them. A shout from the driver brought the chariot to a halt, and the single passenger jumped down. Like the other Bistones, he was dressed in an animal skin; but unlike them, the only weapon he carried was a bone-handled dagger tucked into his belt. In his hand was a staff made from the twisted branch of an olive tree. It was crowned by a human skull and backed by a pair of extended crows’ wings.
He strode purposefully down the beach towards Heracles, who waited for him on the sand. The other boats had landed either side of him and the Pheraeans – fully armed with spears, shields and a scattering of bows – formed a loose line that, in an instant, could be transformed into a disciplined shield wall. Behind them, Dresos and his crew were already rowing their way out of the harbour, though they had no cause for concern, as the Bistones had left their ship and were crowding along the side of the road.
‘King Diomedes bids you welcome,’ the herald announced. His voice was deep and harsh, and it was clear from his speech that Greek was not his native language. ‘He asks you to join him in his palace, where sacrifices will be made and a feast held in your honour. Do you accept?’
‘We accept,’ Heracles said. ‘Lead the way.’
The herald led them up to the top of the beach, where he ordered the driver of his chariot to return without him. The man turned the horses in a half-circle and returned along the flagstoned road by which he had arrived. Without
waiting for the newcomers, the herald followed in the chariot’s wake, his long legs setting a quick pace.
‘I don’t like this,’ Iolaus said in a hushed voice, glancing over his shoulder at the fifty or more Bistones who were following behind. ‘They’re savages. And as for this feast we’re being invited to, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re the main course.’
‘Iolaus is right,’ Abderus whispered, nervously. ‘I don’t trust them.’
Heracles did not answer, though he shared their misgivings. There was a hidden menace about the place, something more than the fierce looks of their hosts. After all, Eurystheus had not sent him here to face mere men. Men he could conquer. There was a greater danger to face, one that was beyond the courage and skill of ordinary men; one that Eurystheus – guided by the hatred of Hera – expected would destroy him. Yet, until that danger revealed itself, he had no choice but to let himself be drawn into Diomedes’s net.
They passed beneath the shadow of the narrow wood, where the air was cool and the only sound other than the tramp of sandalled feet was the constant murmuring of the river to their left. The road began to climb gently and the sides of the valley grew steeper on either side of them. Eventually, they emerged from the trees into open grassland. The ground fell away into a deep trough, before gradually climbing up again. The plain was dotted with cattle and sheep, which roamed freely as they chewed at the lush grass. There were no crops of any kind and no farms, though there were signs that the land might once have been highly cultivated.
On the left of the valley, the river had been dammed by a wall of large stones. Water poured over a gap in the parapet to the right, allowing the river to continue on its way down to the harbour. The dam was old and had been shored up by timber supports, which prevented it from collapsing under the pressure of the water above. The road took them past the lake that had been created by the barrier.
‘If they’re savages, then they’re sophisticated ones,’ Heracles said, looking at the expanse of water. ‘It takes more than brute strength to build a dam and turn marshes into pastureland.’
‘Agreed,’ his nephew said. ‘But these meadows were once cultivated fields, worked by skilled farmers. You can still see the deep furrows where they ploughed the land year after year. As for the dam, that was made a long time ago – and by better men than the Bistones.’
Heracles nodded. Even the harbour had shown signs of being constructed by expert hands, as did the road they were on, though both had since fallen into disrepair. The sun was now at its zenith, shining down into the valley and shrinking the shadows so that everything seemed unnaturally bright. The river to the lake ran through the middle of the dale, and was wider and shallower as tributaries from the ridges on either side fed into it. Before long, the company passed through the shade of another wood and came out onto a wide, flat plateau. The road crossed a stone bridge with broken parapets on either side, and led up the western ridge to a walled town.
‘Tirida,’ the herald announced proudly. ‘Come. The king is impatient to meet with you.’
He strode ahead, beckoning them to follow. Heracles ignored him and stared up at the town, perched on a shelf of the rocky slope. The battlements had once been high and powerfully built, with wide walkways, watchtowers and two gatehouses – one at the north-eastern entrance to the city, the other at the south-eastern gate. Now, though, the walls were crumbling and hung with shrubs that grew from the cracks. In places, they had fallen down altogether, making them useless for defence – something the Bistones had done nothing to rectify. The towers were in a similar state, while the north-eastern gatehouse had collapsed on itself, leaving only a pile of rubble. The one to the south-east still stood, though the gates had long since disappeared, scavenged for building materials or firewood.
The fortifications were surrounded by the empty shells of hundreds of houses, some reduced to just a few rows of stone. It had once been a thriving shanty town, similar to the ones at Tiryns and other cities across Greece, but none of its buildings had been inhabited for a very long time. It made sense, Heracles thought. A large population would have required fields full of crops, groves of olive trees, orchards and vineyards. The Bistones, though, were limited by their lack of sophistication. Perhaps they were nothing more than a wandering tribe of savages who had stumbled upon the ruins left by a vanished people; or maybe they had massacred the inhabitants of Tirida and claimed the city and its land for themselves, letting it fall into decline because they had no farmers or stonemasons of their own.
He exchanged a glance with Iolaus before continuing up the slope towards the city, the Pheraeans and Bistones following behind. The herald was waiting for them at the gates, his impatience obvious. They passed through the arched gateway and found themselves at the start of a wide street, flanked by houses that had once been orderly and well-built. Now, they were crumbling into ruin. Few had doors, and through the open doorways, it was clear that the roofs of some had fallen in. Here and there, walls had collapsed or been broken down, and the holes had been covered with cloth and pieces of wood. Several were streaked black by fire, testament to a more violent form of destruction than simple neglect and decay.
Yet most were occupied. Children – the younger ones completely naked – were everywhere, their white eyes staring out of grimy faces at the newcomers. Women stood in doorways or looked through windows, eyeing the foreign visitors with open hostility. Some spoke unintelligible words in a harsh dialect that meant nothing to Heracles and his companions, though the meaning was clear enough from the tone. Others spat in the dust as they passed by.
A boy of around ten years old ran from a side alley and threw a stone, hitting Abderus on the hip. Immediately, the herald barked an order and one of the Bistone escort seized hold of the child as he bent to pick up another stone. With a harsh shout, he threw him against the wall and drove a fist into his face. The boy fell to the ground, spitting blood, but quickly picked himself up again and launched himself at his attacker, hurling an array of punches at him. A second blow from the soldier sent him sprawling into the dirt, where he lay still.
Heracles clenched his fists and moved towards the man, but Iolaus stepped in front of him and thrust both hands against his chest.
‘Not here, Uncle. Not now,’ he hissed, glancing over his shoulder at the watching Bistones.
Checking his anger, Heracles took his water-skin and bent down by the boy, pouring a little of the cool liquid over his face. He awoke with a splutter and a shake of his head, but at the sight of Heracles kneeling over him released a string of harsh words and followed them with a punch. Heracles caught his wrist easily and pulled him to his feet, while the Bistones on all sides roared with laughter. The boy tugged his hand free and ran back into the alley from which he had emerged.
The herald looked at Heracles with a sneer, then turned and led them up the sloping street. The city was small – its space restricted by the shelf of rock on which it was built – and a third of it was taken up by the inner citadel. It was protected by a high wall that, unlike the outer defences, was at least complete, though crumbling and hung with shrubs and weeds. The single arched gateway was guarded by three bare-chested warriors, armed with axes and spears. They opened the gates at a word from the herald, but stared with open enmity at Heracles, insulting him in their strange dialect as he passed through. The herald barked an order at them, but they simply shouted back.
They entered a wide courtyard, dominated by a large, two-storey building. Heracles had seen its flat roofs from the valley and the approach through the streets of Tirida, but the size of the palace was out of all proportion to the surrounding city. Yet, like the other buildings they had seen, it had been allowed to fall into ruin. The portico was without a roof, and one of the supporting columns had fallen in pieces across the steps. Long ago, the walls of the palace had been whitewashed and decorated with elaborate murals; now, most of the plaster had flaked off or been vandalized. All that remained of the frieze that ran above
the level of the portico roof were a few legs, the hooves of horses and cattle, and the wheels of chariots. The rest was gone.
A group of men sat on the steps of the portico, with half a dozen more loitering by a long stable block over to the left of the courtyard. A chariot leaned against the wall of the stable, its pole pointing up at the skies. Even from where he stood, Heracles could smell a strong odour of dung, urine and hay, indicating the horses within were poorly kept. He wondered if any were the animals he was meant to bring back to Eurystheus. He resisted the urge to go and investigate and followed the herald into the palace.
They entered a large, echoing chamber. It must have been an impressive sight once, intended to overawe visitors with the wealth and power of Tirida’s kings. As large as the great halls in most of the palaces Heracles had visited, it had a flagstoned floor, a high ceiling supported by four columns, and frescoed walls that held alcoves for statues of the gods. Now, though, that splendour was almost gone. There were no torches in the rusting brackets on the walls, and the only source of light was a few high windows, through which daylight poured in dusty columns.
‘It’s amazing,’ Abderus said, following Heracles into the hall. Iolaus and the other Pheraeans stepped quietly in behind him, their escort having remained at the courtyard gates. ‘Or it was amazing, once. What happened to it?’
‘The Bistones, I’d imagine,’ Iolaus answered.
The murals, like those on the walls outside, had been deliberately defaced so that little remained of them. The wall to Heracles’s left had once shown a rural scene, but all that remained was a pair of legs pushing a plough, a field of crops and – in the shadows at the far end – what looked like a dam and a lake with fish. A celebration of the achievements of the people who had once ruled the land, he thought. The far wall was in darkness, but seemed to show a fleet of merchant galleys crossing a blue ocean with uniformly curling waves and all manner of sea creatures swimming below them. Only, these had been vandalized so that just a few tentacles and fins remained, while the ships above were nothing more than broken silhouettes – a high prow here, a rudder and a glimpse of oars there, and the occasional top of a mast or corner of a sail.