by Glyn Iliffe
As they were young, Iolaus and Abderus were left to themselves. The Bistones, it seemed, had been chosen for their ability to speak Greek, as conversations began between them and the Pheraeans. Xuthus, Carnus and the others put aside their concerns about their missing comrades – avoiding any potential conflict that might come out of it – and drank as freely and heavily as they had the night before. Iolaus had no intention of getting himself in the same state again, so drank sparingly of the already potent wine.
Was Heracles doing the same, he wondered? His uncle sat on the block of stone he had placed on the dais the night before, sharing the same horn cup with Diomedes, though clearly allowing the king to consume the greater share of the contents. Diomedes did not seem to notice, drinking freely as he spoke at length with his guest. Yet Iolaus sensed it was all part of an act. The king was a barbarian, ruling over a tribe of thieves and murderers with no respect for the gods or the rule of law, but there was a keen intelligence behind the brutal façade. One that was working keenly and patiently for their destruction.
Eventually, Diomedes rose unsteadily to his feet and called to his nobles to leave their guests in peace. They obeyed with a little too much haste, and the serving girls came quickly out from the shadows to clear away the remaining food and drink. The wine had left Iolaus groggy and tired, but as he lay down on his mattress and pulled the fleece over his shoulders, he was determined to keep his eyes open, ready to jump to the aid of the watchmen if the Bistones came for them in the night.
* * *
Heracles woke to a hand shaking his shoulder.
‘It’s happened again,’ Xuthus said.
‘Who?’
He sat up and looked over to where Iolaus had made his bed. Seeing it empty, he felt a sudden surge of panic. Then he saw his nephew and Abderus at the edge of a group of Pheraeans, who were looking down at a pair of empty mattresses.
‘Agamedes and Carnus,’ Xuthus answered.
‘You were supposed to take the first watch and wake me for the second. How could this have happened?’
‘I don’t know. We were awake for a while after the rest of you had fallen asleep. The next thing we knew, it was morning. It must be some kind of witchcraft. The men are angry, though. They’re ready to take the horses by force and fight their way out. They don’t want to risk any more of them being taken in the night.’
‘They won’t have to,’ Heracles said, rising to his feet.
At that moment, the side door opened and a number of women appeared, bringing bowls of porridge and skins of wine. Heracles took a bowl from one of the maids, refusing the wine she offered him, then walked to the back of the great hall. He stepped over the rubble and out into the wilderness of shrubs and tall grass growing behind the palace. The sun was not yet visible over the ridge on the other side of the valley, though the first rays had fallen across the top of the western arm of the mountain above him, bathing it in amber light. He sat on a boulder and ate his porridge.
Clearly, it was not witchcraft but the wine that was putting them into such a deep sleep. Diomedes had deliberately drunk from the same cup as Heracles to allay any suspicions he might have that the wine was poisoned. But if it was only drugged to encourage sleep, then the king was in no danger. Afterwards, when the Pheraeans slipped inevitably into unconsciousness, it was easy for the Bistones to slip in and take two of them. For what purpose or fate, Heracles could not guess, but he resolved to find out who was taking them, and why.
He had difficulty in keeping the Pheraeans’ anger in check as the evening approached. Only his sworn promise that he would find an answer to the mystery that very night kept them from leaving the hall to search for their friends. Though he warned them to refrain from too much drink and keep their heads clear, he did not reveal his suspicion that the wine was drugged. If they refused to drink, then Diomedes would realize his scheme had been discovered. The only one he told was Iolaus, whose abstinence might go unnoticed because of his youth.
Diomedes and his herald arrived as darkness was falling and the insects were singing in the grass behind the broken wall. They were followed by the same nobles who had accompanied them the night before.
‘What have you done with my men?’ Heracles asked, as the king sat beside him.
Diomedes raised a questioning eyebrow, though he made no effort to make his pretence at ignorance seem convincing.
‘Two of my men disappeared last night, just as they did the night before.’
‘What can I say?’ Diomedes said. ‘Bistone women are beautiful. Men who share their beds have difficulty leaving.’
He grabbed a passing maid by the waist and pulled her onto his lap, raising his other hand to her breast. Not caring that she had spilled wine down the front of her dress, she leaned back and raised her lips to the king’s. She moaned with pleasure as he kissed and fondled her. Then, his point made, he tore his lips from hers and pushed her away.
‘You see? Just say the word, Heracles, and I can arrange a woman for you, too. Or more than one.’
Heracles shook his head and took the horn cup that another servant handed to him. Keeping his mouth tightly shut, he raised it to his lips and let the liquid wash against his whiskers, before lowering it again and handing the cup to Diomedes.
‘Then order your women to stay away from the hall after tonight’s feast is over.’
‘And what will you do if they disobey me and lure more of your men to their beds? Will you leave Tirida without my prize stallions? Surely that would displease your master in Tiryns?’
‘Or maybe I will take the horses anyway,’ Heracles replied.
He received the cup back from Diomedes and raised it to his sealed lips again. A little of the wine ran down his chin before he lowered it and handed it back. The rest of their conversation was curt and stretched out by long silences. There was little talk among their companions, either, and the atmosphere in the great hall was fraught with tension. Yet the charade continued long into the night, until the half-moon had risen over the hills and was casting its silvery glow over the mountainside. Then, when Diomedes seemed to think Heracles had drunk enough, he rose from his block of stone and announced that he was retiring for the night. Urging his guests to eat and drink their fill, he left the hall followed by his herald and the other Bistones.
Despite their intention to stay awake and wait for whoever might come to snatch them away, by midnight the Pheraeans had all fallen asleep. After covering Abderus with a fleece, Iolaus came to sit beside Heracles.
‘So it was the wine,’ he said. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Feign sleep and let them take two of our men.’
‘Let them?’ Iolaus asked. ‘I thought we were going to put a stop to this.’
‘We are. But first we need to see where they’re being taken.’
Chapter Seventeen
THE HORSES OF KING DIOMEDES
Heracles lay on the floor with his furs pulled up to his chest. Iolaus was breathing gently beside him and the Pheraeans were snoring, but he was wide awake, listening for sounds of movement. After a while, his mind drifted to memories of his boys and Megara, and for a short time he was content, though the shadow of their fate hung over his temporary happiness. Then his thoughts were disturbed by a noise. Moving his head slightly as he lay on his back, he stared towards the corner of the hall where it had come from. The flames in the hearth had died out a while ago, leaving only a dull glow from the embers that illuminated nothing. He was aware of a slight movement from Iolaus, but the rest of the hall was still and shrouded in shadow.
Then he heard it again – the creak of a hinge. The side door was pushed open and a torch was thrust into the darkness. Whispered words followed and the torchbearer entered the hall with four others. An owl hooted from the trees behind the palace, causing the men to halt. Then the torch moved forward again, its flickering light illuminating the shapes of the Pheraeans as they lay on their mattresses around the hearth. None moved, except for the rise and fall
of their chests as they slept.
More words, sharper this time. Heracles recognized the harsh tones of the herald, giving orders to his companions. The first two pulled the fleece from the nearest Pheraean, one taking him by the ankles and the other by his wrists. Lifting him easily, they shuffled back towards the side door. The other two did the same with another man. Recognising the unmistakeable bulk of Xuthus as they carried him away, Heracles felt the urge to throw off his blanket and run after them. But he knew he had to find out where they were going, and forced himself to remain still.
The herald waved his torch one last time over the sleeping Pheraeans, checking that none had been woken, then strode after the others, quietly shutting the side door behind him. Heracles was on his feet in an instant. Iolaus, too, threw off his furs and reached for his sword. Grabbing his bow, quiver and club, Heracles ran swiftly and silently to the door, easing it open a crack and peering into the darkness beyond.
A narrow passageway led off to the left, before turning right. The faint glow of the torch could still be seen from around the corner, but was fading rapidly. With Iolaus at his shoulder, Heracles pulled the door open and hurried to the bend. Glancing down the passageway, he saw the torch disappear around another corner. By the last glimmer of its light, he saw several doorways to the left and right. Fearing the Bistones might lose him in the bowels of the palace, he ran as quickly as the narrow space and the almost complete blackness would allow. He nearly collided with the far wall of the passage, and groping to his left – the direction the herald’s torch had taken – found it ended in a closed door.
He fumbled for the handle and opened it cautiously. Utter darkness lay beyond. After a quick glance to ensure Iolaus was still behind him, he walked forward, reaching out on either side to run his fingertips along the walls. A few paces on, the wall disappeared to his right and he felt a faint breeze against his skin. It was a doorway to a room or another corridor, but his instincts told him they had not gone that way. He moved forward again, and suddenly the ground disappeared from beneath his front foot.
He thrust his palms against the walls to stop himself from falling. Probing forward with his foot, he found he was at the top of a flight of steps. He leaned back and whispered a warning to Iolaus, then carefully began his descent. At the bottom was another door, beyond which he could hear hard voices and the sound of whinnying. There was something distinctly un-horselike about the sound, though – something terrifying and cruel. Then a man cried out in fear.
Heracles tried the door and found it barred from the other side. Caring nothing now for secrecy, he stepped back and threw his shoulder against the wood. It crashed from its hinges and fell with a bang against the floor, with Heracles sprawling on top of it. He pushed himself back to his feet and notched an arrow against the string of his bow. Iolaus was beside him, his drawn sword reflecting the orange glow of the torches that lined the walls.
They were in a long, subterranean stable, with an arched ceiling and several stalls on either side. The bare stone walls had been blackened by years of torch smoke, and the thick air was pervaded by the stench of hay and rotted flesh. At first glance, the stables seemed empty. Then they saw figures moving in the shadows at the far end of the chamber. The herald was among them. Seeing they had been followed, he threw out his arm and barked an order.
Two of the men sprang forward, drawing their swords with a slither of bronze as they ran. Heracles raised his bow and released the arrow, the twang of the string loud and resonant in the enclosed space. The point entered the chest of the nearest man, who was thrown backwards and hit the floor with a grunt. The second Bistone increased his pace, pulling his sword back over his shoulder and shouting at the top of his voice. As Heracles slipped the knot that tied his club to his belt, Iolaus ran past him, brandishing his sword with both hands. The Bistone swung his weapon at Iolaus’s head. Iolaus blocked it with his blade, but was thrown off balance by the force of the blow and sent crashing into one of the stable doors.
Ignoring him, the Bistone dashed at Heracles, yelling maniacally as he brought the sword down towards his shoulder. Heracles roared back, his voice deafening in reply. With an upwards swing of his club, he knocked the man’s weapon from his fingers and sent it rattling across the stone floor. The man turned to run, but Heracles brought his club down between his shoulder blades, breaking through his spine and ribs with irresistible force. He fell forward, emitting a curious, strangled noise as he died.
A scream echoed through the stables. Looking up, Heracles saw the two Pheraeans – their hands tied behind their backs – being forced by their captors towards the open door of the last stall. The darkness inside was almost total, but he could see something large moving in the shadows and the glimmer of eyes as they reflected the flames of the herald’s torch. Loud whinnying – the same strange sound he had heard from the bottom of the steps – drowned out the protests of the first Pheraean as the Bistone behind him shoved him into the stall. Suddenly, there was a rattle of heavy chains, and a large black head lunged out from the shadows, followed by a second, and then a third. In form, they were like enormous horses – tall, with coal-black fur and manes. Yet their eyes were blood-red and their teeth were as long and sharp as a lion’s.
The first beast sank its jaws into the Pheraean’s shoulder, tugging back with such force that it ripped out a chunk of his flesh. Blood welled up from the wound and the man cried out with unendurable agony. He was quickly silenced again as the second creature bit into his face, tearing away his nose and left cheek so the bone beneath was momentarily visible, before being blotted out by the crimson surge of his blood. The third seized hold of his right arm, and with a jerk of its powerful neck ripped it from his body. The man collapsed onto the floor of the stable and was dragged into the shadows by the monstrous heads, where they fought over his flesh.
His death and dismemberment had taken only a moment, while Heracles had looked on in shock, paralysed by the horror of it. Now the second Pheraean was thrust towards the stall, struggling valiantly against the strength of both his captors.
‘Xuthus!’ Heracles cried out.
Xuthus turned to look at him, just as a fourth horse loomed up from the shadows behind him. Remembering his bow was still in his other hand, Heracles dropped his club and picked a black-feathered arrow from his quiver, one that had been dipped in the poisonous blood of the Hydra. He fitted it in an instant and pulled the string back to his cheekbone, taking aim at the monster.
‘No!’ Iolaus shouted.
He barged into him, causing the arrow to fly into the arm of one of the Bistones. The man died immediately, slumping to the floor without a sound. Heracles reached for a second arrow, but Iolaus grabbed his wrist and tried to pull his hand away.
‘Don’t kill it!’ he implored. ‘Don’t you see? Those are the horses Eurystheus wants you to take back, not the white ones! Kill them – even one of them – and everything you’ve strived for will have been in vain.’
Heracles glared at his nephew, but knew he was right. For all their magnificence, the white stallions were simply Diomedes’s playthings. His most treasured possessions were the red-eyed, man-eating beasts in the shadows before him, evil monsters that it pleased his savage nature to feed with the flesh of his unsuspecting guests. Had Admetus not warned him that no visitor ever left Diomedes’s palace?
With a grunt, the Bistone pushed Xuthus headlong into the stall. As he fell, the fourth horse lunged towards him, its lips pulled back to reveal sharp, slavering teeth. With a cry of desperation, Xuthus rolled back onto his shoulders and kicked out with both feet, catching the monster in the chest and sending it stumbling backwards.
Heracles dropped his empty bow and ran to help his friend. Warned by a shout from the herald, the remaining Bistone turned and slid his sword from its scabbard. It gleamed menacingly in the torchlight as he raised it above his head and brought it down in a scything arc. Heracles turned his shoulder towards it, letting the lion-skin cloak stop the
edge of the weapon while his layers of dense muscle absorbed the force of the blow. Ignoring the pain, he swung his fist at his attacker. The man ducked aside, avoiding the uppercut that would have shattered his jaw, while pulling back his sword to drive it into Heracles’s stomach. In the same moment, Iolaus leaped forward with a yell and sank his blade into the Bistone’s shoulder, propelling him back through the stable door. Tripping over Xuthus, he landed in the remains of the horses’ first victim and was quickly set upon, screaming horribly as he was torn apart by the three beasts.
The herald drew his bone-handled dagger and lunged at Iolaus’s back. At a shouted warning from his uncle, Iolaus turned and kicked out, catching his assailant in the stomach and sending him sprawling across the floor. The fourth horse neighed loudly and reared over Xuthus, who rolled clear as its hooves came down where his head had been. Dashing into the stall, Heracles drove his shoulder into the animal’s chest and pushed it backwards. Its jaws snapped over his back and he felt its hot breath against his neck as he threw his weight against it. Planting his hands against its broad flanks, he called on all his strength and hurled the beast into the shadows at the rear of the stable. The others were still feeding on the remains of the Bistone, and Heracles seized hold of Xuthus’s shoulders and hauled him clear. Just then, the fourth horse lunged at him from the darkness, but was snatched back by the heavy iron chain around its neck.
The herald jumped to his feet and scrambled towards a wide gate at the end of the stable. Heracles ran after him, hooking his arm around his neck and pulling him back as he fumbled desperately with the wooden bar. Angered that he had fed five of his comrades to the horses, Heracles ignored the herald’s pleas for mercy and dragged him back to the stable, intent on sending him to the same fate. But Iolaus – who had been untying Xuthus’s bonds – threw himself before the stable door.
‘No, Uncle. We need him alive.’
‘Listen to the boy,’ the herald squealed. ‘I can help you!’