by Glyn Iliffe
To the right was a scene of celebration, in which the king, his nobles and his people formed a religious procession. Behind them were many cattle, rams and goats – of which only a few hocks and horns had survived – being led towards the steps of what had once been a temple, perhaps in thanks for the blessings illustrated on the other walls. Strangely, the figures of the suppliants were almost untouched. Almost, but for the faces. These had been chipped out and replaced with crude mockeries, sneering or laughing as they stared out from the frieze. But nowhere was there a depiction of anything military, not even a single war galley among the merchantmen. That, Heracles thought, was a clue to the downfall of Tirida.
The city’s new possessors were clearly no respecters of the gods. The statues of the female Olympians had been thrown down from their alcoves, their heads and arms broken or hacked off. Only Hera remained standing, though her effigy had been repainted with crude red breasts and an inverted black triangle where her legs met. Perhaps the goddess had chosen Tirida for Heracles’s newest labour to make him the instrument of her vengeance. He thought it doubtful, though, that she would sacrifice any chance to destroy him, and felt it more likely she intended to have her retribution on both him and the Bistones.
The male gods had also suffered humiliation. Apollo and Hermes had enormous erect phalluses painted on them, while others were daubed with what looked like excrement, or had had their heads removed and replaced with sacrilegious travesties – the skull of a ram for Hephaistos and the decaying head of a large fish for Poseidon. Only Ares remained untouched.
As for Zeus, his effigy was dressed in beggar’s rags, with a dagger thrust into his wooden groin and his head replaced by one from a female statue. The head had hair and a beard, which after a moment of squinting against the shadows, Heracles realized had been scalped from one of the Bistones’ victims. Heracles was tempted to draw his bow and shoot the herald between the shoulder blades, but the flash of temper quickly subsided. Instead, he resolved to avenge the dishonour to his father when the opportunity came.
He followed the herald across the broken flagstones to a pair of large doors, guarded by two spearmen. The doors seemed poorly made, with ill-fitting wood that let in light from the room beyond. Heracles’s instincts told him they led to the great hall, though it was not firelight that he saw through the cracks in the doors, but the light of day.
At a gesture from the herald, the guards opened the doors. The hall beyond – or what remained of it – was twice as large as its antechamber. Half of the ceiling had fallen in, and though most of the sixteen columns that supported it still stood, several had toppled over and lay in pieces across the floor. The rear wall had collapsed entirely, taking half of the sidewalls with it and offering an open panorama of the mountain ridge behind. The broken masonry had been cleared from the centre of the hall and piled in heaps at the sides. The remaining walls and ceiling might once have borne murals as elaborate as those in the antechamber, but these were lost behind the scorch marks from the fire that had destroyed the hall. The remaining columns, too, were black from foot to crown, as were the piles of rubble. The stone floor was also cracked and glazed black where the greedy flames had swept across it.
So war had been the nemesis of the men who had built Tirida, Heracles thought. And the victors were all around him. Perhaps a hundred men sat amid the rubble, with a few more on benches in a semicircle before the central hearth, from which a blazing fire sent a column of smoke into the skies above. The Bistones wore animal skins or were bare-chested, with their long hair tied behind their necks and their beards plaited. They eyed the Pheraeans with disdain, measuring them by their dyed woollen tunics and their short beards. Few, if any, looked for more than a moment at Iolaus and Abderus.
But none dismissed Heracles so easily. They saw the lion-skin with its black mane and long claws, and knew that no man would wear such a trophy who had not won it for himself. They looked at his powerful muscles and the old scars that marked his skin, and they understood that here was a man worthy of their respect. None were cowed by his presence, though. Something in the way they looked at him told Heracles that every one of them was eager for the chance to fight him. The fame and glory from killing such a warrior was worth any amount of risk to themselves.
But Heracles had little interest in the rest of the Bistones. His attention was held by the figure seated on the dais beyond the blazing hearth. He sat not on a throne of wood – delicately carved and gilded, or draped with furs – but on a block of charred stone, his legs spread and a heavy, two-headed axe laid across his bare thighs. One hand sat on his hip, while the elbow of his other arm was planted on his knee, his bearded chin resting on his fist as he regarded his guests with dark, fearless eyes. He wore a leather helmet, in which were set the twisted horns of an ox, one of them stained with dried blood; and over his hulking shoulders was the headless pelt of a great bear, its paws crossed over his chest. In size, he was easily the match of Heracles, and if he were to rise from his seat and cross the floor, it would be as if two of the Titans from before the age of men were facing each other.
Their eyes met and their wills wrestled for mastery of each other, neither prepared to look away and grant his opponent victory. The others in the hall quickly became aware of the battle, watching in awe and trying to anticipate how it would end. Heracles was conscious of hands moving to weapons and fingertips easing lids from quivers, and wondered himself how the duel might be decided. All he knew was that to break eye contact with Diomedes – who else could his opponent be? – would be even more dangerous than defeating him and facing the consequences of the king’s humiliation.
The herald – who was a gangling runt by comparison to the other Bistones – now proved why he was trusted to his position. He strode up to the dais and stood before Diomedes, breaking the line of sight between him and Heracles and bringing the contest to an end with honours even.
‘My lord,’ he began, ‘these are the foreigners you asked to be brought before you.’ He bowed, then turned to the guests. ‘You must surrender your arms. They will be returned to you when you leave Tirida.’
He signalled to several guards waiting in the shadows by the fire-blackened doors. They stepped forward, ready to rip the weapons from the Pheraeans’ hands if they did not yield them quickly enough. With barely a thought – but knowing that his instincts were right – Heracles slipped his bow from his shoulder, fitted an arrow and aimed it at the herald.
‘A man’s weapons are best cared for by himself. We will not give them up.’
Taking his lead, Iolaus and the Pheraeans gripped their spears and swords and formed a circle. While the guards hung back, looking fiercely to the herald for orders, the other Bistones leaped to their feet or jumped down from the stones on which they were sitting, shouting loudly and brandishing their own weapons. For a moment, it seemed that their mission to Tirida would come to a quick and bloody end. Then a single voice rang out with laughter.
‘Good! Good !’ Diomedes boomed, in his deep, growling voice. ‘A true warrior does not give up his weapons until they are torn from his dead fingers. You’ve proved yourselves worthy of a place at my table. Come, sit down with me. Let’s see if you can eat and drink like warriors, too.’
Heracles shouldered his bow and nodded to his companions that they should put their own weapons away. The herald waved his hands impatiently at the Bistones seated before the hearth, gesturing for them to make space for the newcomers. At the same time, he raised an arm towards a corner of the great hall and clicked his fingers. Several women emerged from the shadows, bringing food and wine to the Pheraeans as they took their seats cautiously among their hosts.
‘Not you,’ Diomedes said, pointing at Heracles as he was about to sit next to an old greybeard with muscles like boulders and a face that had felt the edge of a weapon more than once. ‘You will sit beside me. I want to know what sort of man you are.’
Heracles raised himself up and approached the dais. There were
no other blocks of stone besides the one the king was seated upon, and he sat astride it with his legs firmly apart. Did he expect him to kneel beside him, like a supplicant, Heracles wondered? Or maybe stand, like a slave. Heracles chose to do neither. He walked to the heap of rubble at the back of the hall, where several Bistones watched his approach with open hostility. One sat on an oblong block of stone that had escaped burning and had not cracked or broken in half during the destruction of the palace walls. Pulling him to his feet by the collar of his fur cloak, Heracles silenced his angry protests with a single punch and threw him halfway across the hall. The Bistones stood and reached for their weapons, but reluctantly resumed their seats at a signal from Diomedes.
Heracles bent his knees either side of the block and laid his forearms along the cold, rough stone, gripping the edges firmly. Then, with a sharp grunt, he tightened his grip and lifted it from the dust and rubble. Straightening his knees, and with his teeth gritted against the strain that was turning his joints and sinews to iron, he tilted it back onto his chest and turned towards the dais. There were gasps and cries of disbelief from all corners of the hall and he could see Diomedes’s eyes widen in awe. Then he walked steadily towards the hearth and – with the same control with which he had lifted it –placed the grey stone down onto the dais beside the king’s.
The hall erupted with roars of admiration and a noisy chorus of stamping feet from the Bistones. Heracles patted the dust from his tunic and sat. Diomedes gave a faint smile and nodded his head, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to one of the serving girls and beckoned her over. A ram’s horn lay on a small table in front of them, which he picked up and held out while the maid filled it with wine. The king took a swallow, then handed it to Heracles.
‘Here, friend, drink.’
Heracles dipped the tips of his fingers in the dark liquid and flicked the drops towards the fire in honour of the gods, before raising the horn to his lips and draining its contents. The mix was strong, perhaps equal parts of wine and water, and he quickly felt it coursing through his veins and lightening his mood. The girl took hold of his hand and refilled the horn with wine. She looked at Heracles briefly and flicked her eyes towards Diomedes. Understanding, he took a mouthful and passed the horn back to his host, who finished it in a single draught. Smacking his lips loudly, the king thrust his massive hand forward.
‘I am Diomedes, son of Ares.’
‘Heracles, son of Zeus,’ Heracles replied, gripping the man’s wrist.
Diomedes’s eyes narrowed. Heracles was aware of the rising clamour of voices all around them. His display of strength had impressed the Bistones and gained him and the Pheraeans a degree of acceptance, which was now being sealed with food and wine. The king’s hold of his wrist was firm and immensely strong as he stared once more into Heracles’s eyes. This was not a renewal of their battle of wills, though, but an examination. Did he disbelieve his assertion that he was a son of Zeus? Or did he resent the fact that he was claiming, in effect, to outrank Diomedes as his uncle?
The moment passed. Diomedes released his wrist and his hard expression was eased by the glimmer of a smile.
‘That makes us equals. We both have the blood of the immortals in our veins, and are fated for great or terrible things. But what brings you to my kingdom? You are a Greek, and Greeks have little interest in Thrace – except for when we are raiding your coasts. What is it you want from me?’
Heracles looked into his host’s dark eyes. Though there was much to divide them, they also had much in common, and against his better judgement, he found that he liked the man. Yet he did not trust him. Should he openly ask for the mysterious horses that his newest labour commanded him to find? If they were precious to Diomedes, then the revelation could jeopardize everything he had come for. Or was it better to offer a lie – trade talks on behalf of King Admetus, or some other deception that would hide his true purpose and give him time to discover where these animals were kept and what made them so important? But trickery had never been his way.
‘I may be a son of Zeus, but I am also a slave. The gods commanded me to become a bondsman to one of the kings of Greece, and it’s on his orders that I am here – to ask for something that you possess, my lord.’
‘A man of your strength and blood, a slave ?’ Diomedes said. ‘That is a great dishonour. We do not tolerate any man or woman to serve as a slave in Tirida, even our enemies – it is better to kill those we capture, rather than make them suffer such humiliation. But you have a weakness for the commands of the gods, it seems.’
‘Unlike you. I saw the statues in the antechamber.’
Diomedes shrugged his massive shoulders.
‘I honour my father, that is enough. The others we do not need. Who is this king you serve?’
‘He’s my cousin, Eurystheus, King of Tiryns and Mycenae.’
A cup clattered noisily on the floor, spilling its contents over the flagstones. Distracted, Heracles looked across and saw Abderus sitting with the horn lying at his feet. He was staring at Heracles, but turned away as their eyes met. Then a maid bent down to mop up the mess, while a second brought the youth a fresh cup. Heracles turned back to Diomedes.
‘I have completed seven labours at his command and five more remain before I can be released from this bondage. The first of the five is to bring back the horses of King Diomedes.’
The nearest Bistones fell silent and looked up at the mention of the horses. The herald, who had been standing at the corner of the dais, turned his head in surprise.
‘Does your master think we will simply give away the horses to the first foreigner who asks for them?’
The king held up his hand for silence.
‘I like you, Heracles,’ he said. ‘You have been honest with me, and so I will be honest with you. Feast with us tonight and in the morning I will show you my horses. Then you can see their magnificence for yourself and realize why your master desires them. Will you accept my hospitality?’
Heracles agreed. Diomedes sent his herald to order the slaughter of more animals, and soon the dying cries of sheep and goats could be heard beyond the tumbledown walls of the great hall. Trails of smoke rose up into the late afternoon skies and a breeze brought the welcome smell of roasting meat to the nostrils of hosts and guests alike. Dozens of servant girls appeared, bringing baskets of bread and fruit, platters of freshly cooked meat and more drink for the waiting men.
It was not long before the noise of the feast grew in proportion to the wine that had been drunk, the raucous singing and laughter ringing back from the slopes of the mountain ridge behind the hall. Heracles looked on with satisfaction as the Pheraeans equalled the Bistones in their capacity for food and drink, though it was not even fully dark before Iolaus and Abderus sank into unconsciousness. They were laid out beneath the benches by their comrades, who draped cloaks over them to keep them warm.
Heracles matched Diomedes drink for drink, until the skies above them were black and the stars could be seen clear and bright through the orange sparks sailing up from the hearth. For a while, he forgot the troubles of the past year and answered his host’s questions about the battles he had been in and the opponents he had fought. Diomedes had many tales of his own to tell, about daring raids against fortified cities, and vicious fights against numerically superior enemies. Then their talk turned to the black lion-skin that Heracles wore. Soon, the king and those of the Pheraeans and Bistones who remained conscious were listening intently to the stories of his labours.
Eventually, when most of the Pheraeans had collapsed in drunken stupors, and many Bistones who had reached similar states, had been carried out by their friends, Diomedes rose unsteadily to his feet.
‘Friends, I am tired and sleep is calling to me,’ he declared. ‘Our feast is over, and those of us with beds should go to them. Heracles, I leave my hall to you and your men. Mattresses will be brought for you.’
He took Heracles by the wrist and looked him in the eye, before pulling him
into a bear-like embrace. Then – accompanied by his herald, who barked orders to the women waiting in the shadows – he staggered from the dais and crossed to the fire-blackened doors.
Others followed and soon the great hall was empty of all but the Pheraeans and a few women carrying piles of straw beds and furs. Those who still could claimed a mattress and fell fast asleep. Heracles rolled the others onto beds and covered them with fleeces. As he made his own bed and lay down on it, watching the last of the maids depart through a side entrance, he had a sudden feeling that he should stay awake and keep watch. But the next moment, he was asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
THE MISSING
Heracles woke with a start. Blinking against the early morning sunlight that flooded the ruins of the great hall, he turned onto his side and stared out at the steeply sloping ridge behind the palace. The trees were filled with birds, singing noisily as they heralded the dawn. The simple pleasure of their voices was something he usually enjoyed, but that morning his pounding headache made the sound almost intolerable. He rolled the other way and looked at his comrades beyond the still-burning hearth. Several were asleep – including Iolaus and Abderus – but most were seated on benches, eating and drinking from short tables. A few women stood behind them, ready to bring more food or wine at their call.
He got to his feet, adjusted the lie of his cloak over his shoulders, and went to join Xuthus at one of the benches. Before he could sit, one of the Bistone maids brought him a horn filled with wine and a wooden plate layered with bread and cold mutton, which she set down on the table before him.
‘The bread’s like dried dung,’ Xuthus complained. ‘It was bad enough when it was freshly baked yesterday, but now it’s just about inedible.’