When Heracles finally found the hind, the sun was low in the west, casting long shadows over the wooded slopes of the mountains. It had taken several days to reach Ceryneia, prolonged by a visit to Molorchus and Thaleia, and he was weary from his long journey. Then, as he trudged through the lonely valley of the River Celadon – hunting rabbits with his bow at the ready – he caught a glint of gold on the hills above him. Looking up, he saw the magnificent animal standing on a shelf of rock, her pelt flashing white in the late afternoon sun. With an arrow already notched and the string half drawn, he could have brought her down in a moment. But that was not his task, and only a fool would have dared the wrath of Artemis.
Having no real thought to how he would catch the hind, he shouldered his bow and pulled a coil of rope from his satchel. He measured out two arms’ lengths of it and tied a hasty knot to make a lasso. He wore the pelt of the Nemean Lion, which he had skinned using its own claws. The upper part of its head sat on his own like a cap, with the hideous snout and its double row of teeth shading his face; the remainder of its hide hung down over his shoulders and back like a cloak. It was as black as night, making him almost invisible as he lurked in the shadows beside the broad river. Only the flash of his bare arms as he prepared the rope revealed him to the hind’s sight.
She turned towards him, her golden antlers gleaming in the sunlight. He stood for a moment, marvelling at the purity and beauty of the animal. Then he ran up the slope towards her, his crude lasso in hand. At first, she refused to move, as if it was beneath her dignity to run from any man. Then she edged backwards along the shelf of rock, bent her hind legs beneath her and sprang forward.
She reached the crest with two long strides of her bronze hooves, leaping over Heracles’s head and landing on the rocky slope behind him. She bounded away across the hillside, outstripping the wind that blew through the dry grass. He ran to the top of the rock shelf and watched in awe, shielding his eyes from the sun as she crossed the valley and entered a dense wood that spanned both sides of the river. He lingered a moment longer, wondering how he would ever catch such an animal. Then he leaped from the sill of rock, hitting the slope below with a cloud of dust and scrambling back to his feet to take up the pursuit.
His quarry was no more than a flash of white among the shadows of the wood, and her great speed was increasing the distance between them all the time. But the hunt had begun at last and Heracles felt the thrill of it driving him forward. Just a little earlier he had been thinking ahead to his evening meal and wondering where he would make his bed for the night; now all thoughts of food and sleep were banished from his mind as he sprinted towards the eaves of the wood. As he smashed into the undergrowth at the edge of the wood, the deer was already lost to sight. But its bronze hooves left such clear imprints in the soft earth that he barely needed to ease his pace to keep on her trail.
The tracks took him back downhill to the river. The hind had followed the winding bank to a point where the waters ran shallow. Without pausing, he waded into the stream, which quickly reached his groin. The rocks underfoot were smoothed by the current and slimy, causing him to slip several times before he gained the opposite bank. There he found the hoof prints again and followed them up into the woods.
The sun had sunk behind the tops of the mountains and the light was fading quickly. There was no sign of the hind through the trees ahead, and her tracks were becoming more difficult to follow in the dusky light. Heracles’s pace slowed to a jog. He knew he was not quick enough to catch the animal – he could not even keep her within sight – and without resorting to his bow and arrows, he remained uncertain about how he would stop her fleeing every time she caught sight of him. All he knew was that he had to stay on her trail. If he could do that, an opportunity to capture the hind would eventually present itself. If he failed, though, the labour would be uncompleted. All hope of absolution would wither and he would be left with the guilt of his crime. The horror of it would become inescapable until, slowly, he sank into madness. The son of Zeus would wander from city to city, a pariah mocked and loathed by all who came across him.
And so he ran on, desperate for a glimpse of the deer and yet seeing nothing, his hope sustained only by the deep hoof prints still visible before him. He followed them long into the evening, his progress reduced now to walking pace as he sought the increasingly elusive tracks in the gloom. He told himself that the hind, too, would have slowed to a walk, aware that her pursuer had fallen far behind. Indeed, the chase had ended. Now it had become a hunt: his intelligence set against her speed; his absolute need to complete the labour set against her instinct for survival.
Eventually, he lost the tracks altogether. Returning to the last place he had seen them, he laid his lion’s pelt on the grass and began gathering wood and kindling for a fire. The deer had to sleep, too, he thought as he lay down beside the crackling flames. In the morning, he would pick up the trail again and pursue it until he found her. Then he would use the cover of the wood to get close and throw his rope around her antlers.
Images of the animal followed him into his dreams. He saw her standing up to her hocks in the River Celadon. Yellow sunlight was streaming down in columns of differing brightness from the thin canopy above. Her head was lowered as she drank from the gently flowing waters, her golden horns gleaming brilliantly, her white hide without blemish. Even as he slept, Heracles was conscious of the beauty and majesty of the creature, and he understood why it would be a crime to harm such innocence. Then she raised her head and twitched her ears. Heracles, too, sensed a shadowy presence marring the purity of that scene. He looked around, from tree to tree and rock to rock, but could not see what evil had disturbed the hind.
Then he saw that she was looking directly at him. He glanced down at himself and saw the large black paws of the lion’s skin. They were planted in the grass, claws drawn and digging into the soil, ready to spring forward. He wanted to cry out, telling the hind to run. But all that came out was a roar, a sound so evil that it caused the sunlight to dim and fail. He looked at the hind again, willing her to move, to at least try to save herself. Then he ran towards her. At the last moment she turned to run, but it was too late. He sprang, burying his claws into the white fur and tearing deep, bloody welts through the flesh.
The hind collapsed beneath the weight of the attack, crashing down into the river and sending up a spray of pink liquid. Heracles sensed himself clawing at the stricken animal, felt her struggling beneath him and heard her crying out. But the screams were not those of a deer, for he heard voices calling out in fear and desperation. Father, no! Father, please!
He woke with a start and sat up. The fire had almost died out, and by the glow of its embers he could see a tall white figure standing among the black trees. How long the hind had been watching him he could not guess, but as he threw aside his blanket and reached for the coil of rope in his satchel, she leaped over the fire and sprang away into the trees behind him. He followed her barefoot to the edge of the glow from his campfire and watched her pale form fade into the darkness like a phantom.
Dawn was still some way off, but he did not sleep any more that night. Neither did he continue the pursuit, not daring to lose the hind’s trail in the darkness, or confuse it with the trail he had been following the evening before. And so he threw more logs onto the fire and waited for the first light of day, folding his arms about his knees and staring into the flames. He wondered why the animal had come back. Had she stumbled on him by accident? Any ordinary creature would have been warned off by the smouldering fire, but the hind was not ordinary. Perhaps she had returned to mix up her tracks and confound his pursuit. Or maybe she had meant to disturb his sleep and tire him out. It was also possible, he thought, that she wanted him to continue the chase.
He found her tracks easily enough when morning arrived, though the trail was already cold. He followed it at a steady jog, up into the foothills of the mountains, from one ridge to another, and finally down again to the Celadon. Here the trail followed the course of the river, back towards the open plains of the valley. Not once did he spy the animal, though the deep tracks remained clear and easy to follow. Then, as evening fell again, he emerged from the eaves of the wood to see her on the same shelf of rock where he had first spotted her. She stood as proud as a stag surveying its kingdom, and for a while she did not move, either ignorant of his presence or determined not to acknowledge him.
He retreated into the shadow of the trees and loosened his belt, retying it around his cloak. Taking the rope from his satchel, he tested the looping knot he had fastened that morning to ensure it would allow the lasso to be pulled tight. Silently, he prayed to Zeus to keep him hidden from the hind’s sight, then slipped down into the water. Relying on the blackness of the lion’s pelt to camouflage him, he left the cover of the trees and hugged the steep sides of the riverbank. The sun was slowly retreating behind the crests of the mountains, leaving the lower half of the valley in darkness and the upper half in light. The shade was deepest along the meandering line of the river, where the gnarled trees and thickly spreading shrubs shielded Heracles’s approach from the eyes of the hind as she bathed in the last rays of the sun.
The shadow of the mountains had almost reached the rocky ledge by the time he came parallel with it. Drawing himself slowly and quietly onto the bank, he looked up at the hind. She remained motionless, her fur a pale pink now in the light from the sunset. Certain she had not seen him, he crept to a knot of trees at the foot of the hill. From here, the angle of the slope hid him from the hind’s view. The shadow was now at the lip of the shelf where she stood. Knowing she would not linger once the sun had gone down, he readied his lasso and moved stealthily up the hillside. Placing each hand and foot carefully so as not to send a loose stone bouncing back down the slope, he made his way steadily upwards until the lip of rock loomed above his head. He could hear the animal breathing and smell her scent on the warm air. Then, as he prepared to dash up the last of the slope, she snorted loudly and scraped her hooves on the stone.
Heracles ran from beneath the rock shelf, but was too late. The hind leaped over his head and landed lightly on the grass a stone’s throw away. She sprang away, this time heading further up the valley, away from the trees. He sprinted after her, desperate not to lose her again. But as she reached the bank of the river where the water was wide and shallow, he knew he would not be able to catch her.
In desperation, he slipped the bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow. The hind’s escape had been slowed by the fast-flowing waters, making her an easy target. He drew the fletch back to his cheek, adjusted his aim to account for the breeze, and relaxed his fingers on the string. But as he focused on the hind, he remembered his brother’s warning. The animal is sacred to Artemis, the most vengeful of all the Olympians. She loves it like a child, and if you kill it – if you even harm it – then you will become the prey and she the hunter. And from the goddess’s arrows, there can be no escape.
With a shout of anger, he twitched the bow upwards and released the string. The arrow arced into the sky, overshooting the river and landing in the grass on the far bank. The hind stopped midstream and turned her head. Her eyes were black and unintelligent, but they seemed to understand the conflict inside him. She was the embodiment of purity, everything that he was not. To have slain her would have been as appalling a crime as the murder of his children. And he could not bear to have more innocent blood on his conscience.
But that was the twisted genius of the task Charis had set for him, guided by the malicious will of Hera. The hind was not a monster he could conquer by his strength and courage – the gifts his Olympian father had granted him in excess. Instead, she was a swift-footed beast that could easily outrun him, and whose flight – as he had just realized – he could not halt with his arrows. Only one hope had been left to him: to stalk the hind and trap her. And yet she seemed able to sense his approach. He had made no sound climbing the slope, he was certain of that, and his scent would have been carried away from her by the direction of the wind. But something had warned her of his presence.
The hind turned her gaze away from him and continued onto the opposite bank. As soon as she climbed up onto the solid earth, she sprang away again, clambering nimbly up the opposite slope. And slender though his chances were of catching her, Heracles cast aside his despair and sprinted after her. By the time he had crossed the Celadon, she was already on the crest of the ridge ahead of him, silhouetted black against the auburn sun. She looked back briefly, as if encouraging the pursuit, then bounded down the opposite slope and out of sight.
Determined not to lose sight of her again, Heracles ran after her. At the top of the hill, he caught sight of her again, her white form cutting a swathe through the long grass on the flanks of the next ridge. He ran on, and as he ran he wondered again how she had detected his presence beneath the shelf of rock. The scent of the lion’s pelt had been powerful when it was alive, but had quickly faded after he had removed and cleaned it. Then had she sensed the monster’s evil? In life, the lion’s malevolent nature had been palpable, even to him; how much more would it be to a sacred creature like the hind? Yet the lion was dead and its spirit had died with it.
Then, as he saw the hind stretching out the distance between them, he understood. It was not the lion’s evil that she had sensed. It was his. Was she not a favourite of Artemis, protector of animals and the vulnerable? The protector of children. The hind could sense what he had done to his own sons. She could taste the abhorrence of his offence, and her virtuous nature could not tolerate having him close. As long as the guilt of his crime remained upon him, she would not abide him coming near to her. Yet he could not be redeemed until he had caught her.
He slowed to a halt. If only a virtuous heart could capture the hind, then the task was indeed impossible. He dropped to his knees in the long grass and hung his head. For a while, the frail hopes he had been clinging to left him and his mind was possessed by dark thoughts. He felt again the desolation of that morning, after he had woken from his madness to discover he had killed his boys. He had tried to kill himself then – and would have, if Iolaus had not interfered. But Iolaus could not save him from himself forever, and he would have tried again and succeeded had he not been told to consult the oracle. The hope that there might be an answer to his misery – an escape from his suffering – had given him the will to go on. And the promise of the Pythoness that there was a path to absolution had lent him the strength to continue. But now the path had ended. Hera had won.
He placed his hand on the hunting knife in his belt, drawing it slowly from its scabbard. The blade ran crimson with the dying colours of the sunset. If there was no way to complete the labour he had been set, then he would not spend the rest of his days under a shadow. Better to end them now than to wander from city to city, hated and rejected by all who knew of him and what he had done. He gripped the hilt hard and raised it level with his chest. Then he brought it down with a thump into the hard earth.
‘And I’ll be damned if I’m going to quit at the second labour!’ he shouted, his voice rolling back from the surrounding hillsides. ‘Mock me if you like – I don’t care. I don’t give up!’
He looked at the next ridge, where the hind had returned to look down at him.
‘What are you staring at!’ he roared.
Then he threw his lion-skin on the grass and lay down, succumbing quickly to his tiredness. Strangely, his dreams were not haunted by the hind, or memories of his dead sons. Instead, he dreamed of Megara. She stood on the ridge above where he lay, dressed in a long white dress and wearing a golden tiara in her hair. She held something in her hand, something small wrapped in cloth, but when he asked what it was she just smiled and ran away. He tried to follow, only to find she was already at the next ridge. Soon she was at the ridge beyond that, before fading from sight altogether.
He did not see the hind the next day, or the day after, though he was still able to follow her tracks in the earth. They led westward, through the mountain passes and down into the plains. Where the creature was leading him – for leading him she was – he did not know. Nor did he care. To press the pursuit was useless. All he could do was follow and wait, praying to Zeus that an opportunity would come. And when it did, he had to be ready to take it.
On the third day it rained. It was a cold rain, blowing against his back from the east, though his lion’s pelt kept him dry and warm. He had left the high mountains behind. The hind’s course avoided the roads and villages of men and followed the hidden valleys in the hills. Here, the incessant rain began to wash down the slopes, taking the top layer of soil and the tracks of the hind with it. By the time evening came – with the sun slipping away unseen behind the ceiling of cloud – he had lost the trail entirely.
He made camp in a nearby wood. After failing to light a fire, he ate a frugal meal from a few berries he had gathered and the last oatcake from his satchel. Then he lay down and let his mind drift naturally to Megara. Until his dream the other night, he had barely dared to think about her because their parting had been so terrible. Of all the many women he had slept with, she had been the only one to capture his heart. He had loved her with a lasting passion, and she had loved him back with equal delight. Her ardour for him had only ebbed with the arrival of Therimachus and the natural dividing of her affections. With the child’s death, it had died altogether. Yet in his dream she had smiled, and the simple kindness in that expression reminded him of the woman he had known. The memories of her that he had turned away from began to return, filling him with joy and sadness in equal measure. When sleep finally took him, it was with tears in his eyes.
He awoke to the smell of deer. Opening his eyes, he glimpsed blue skies through the canopy above, then sat up and looked about himself. The foliage glistened with yesterday’s rain, and for a few moments the only sound was the occasional dripping of water onto the leaf-covered floor of the wood. Then he heard the snap of a twig.
He turned onto all fours and reached for the rope at his side. Keeping himself low, he eased his head over the low shrub that he had sheltered behind the night before. Then he saw her. Just a movement of leaves at first, followed shortly after by an antlered head and brown body. His heart sank at the realization it was not the hind, but revived quickly again at the prospect of roast venison.
Dropping the lasso, he groped instead for his bow. As quietly as he could, he fitted an arrow and took aim, hoping the growling of his stomach would not give him away. The deer turned its head towards him, but it was too late. The bowstring twanged and the animal folded forward onto its knees. It kicked briefly with its back legs – a defiant last attempt to stand – then fell on its side.
Heracles gathered up his things and ran over to the dead beast. He had not eaten meat since his visit to Molorchus, and the thought of the deer’s flesh made his mouth water. Plucking out his arrow, he heaved the warm carcass onto his back and made his way back to the edge of the wood. With the sun already up, he would soon find some dry kindling and logs to make a fire with, after which he would sit under the eaves and enjoy his meal. Then he would continue westward – the direction the hind had pursued for the past two days – in the hope of picking up a fresh trail.
He left the shade of the wood and looked down into the plain below. It was still in shadow, though he could see the silver trail of the Celadon passing through it. There were several farmsteads, marked by thin pillars of smoke, and he thought he could spy a wagon making its slow course along the road that ran parallel with the river. He was just thinking that he had not seen another person in almost a week, when suddenly he was alerted by the sound of bells from the ridge behind him. The clanging, discordant noise was accompanied by a voice, happily singing some childish rhyme that he did not recognize. Slipping back under the eaves, he waited for its owner to appear.
After a few moments, a pair of goats came over the ridge and shambled along a thin, well-trodden path that ran beside the wood. Others followed in ones and twos, and then came a herd of a dozen or more, bleating loudly as they jostled against each other. Heracles twitched his nose at the musty smell of their fleeces, carried to him on the breeze. At the back of the herd was a small girl with brown skin and black hair that flowed down to her ribs. She continued to sing as she tapped the backs of her flock with her crook, her gentle voice beautiful in contrast to their din.
To Heracles’s amazement, he recognized her as the girl he had saved from the bandits on Mount Parnassus. Without thinking, he stepped out of the shadows.
‘Myrine.’
She gave a scream and dropped her crook, scattering the goats before her. She fixed her startled gaze on the huge, unkempt man before her, with the dead deer over his shoulders and the bow and arrows at his side. At first he thought she would turn and flee back the way she had come. Then her mouth fell open and, after a moment’s hesitation, she ran to him and threw her arms about his waist, hugging him tightly. Carefully letting go of the deer’s ankles, he lowered his hand to her tangle of hair and stroked it.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said, looking up at him.
He gave her a questioning look.
‘I saw you in my dreams,’ she explained. ‘The gods told me you were coming. Mother wouldn’t listen to me, but I was right. You must come back home or she’ll never believe I saw you.’
Her innocent welcome filled him with joy. Shrugging off the burdens that had weighed on his spirit, he released a deep laugh and ran his thumb across her cheek.
‘Of course I’ll come. And you’re right: how else would our paths cross again, unless it was the will of the gods?’
She smiled and took him by the hand.
‘We live on the southern edge of the wood, with my grandfather. Come home with me and I’ll cook a meal for you. You look hungry.’
‘I am. And look,’ he added, indicating the deer with a nod of his head, ‘the gods have provided us with food too.’
She looked a little disappointed.
‘Then my mother will have to cook for you. I only know how to make porridge.’
He could smell woodsmoke long before the path turned the corner of the wood and revealed the timber cottage where Myrine and her mother lived. It was small, with a roof of thatched straw from which a twist of grey smoke was rising into the air. A ramshackle pigsty had been built against the side wall of the cottage – from which came the grunt and squeal of several piglets – and there was a stone animal pen in the meadow. A large black dog lay with its head on its paws before the porch, but at the approach of Myrine and her goats it pricked up its ears and stood. Then, seeing Heracles, it gave several loud barks and advanced, baring its teeth.
‘What is it, Thoas?’ came a woman’s voice from inside the cottage.
The door swung open and Myrine’s mother emerged, drying her hands on her apron. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and her expression seemed slightly irritated at being pulled away from whatever chore she had been about. As she saw her daughter approaching with a strange man, a look of sudden concern entered her eyes, to be replaced a moment later by one of recognition and confusion. Then she rushed barefoot from the porch towards Heracles and fell on her knees before him.
‘My lord!’
‘I said he would come, Mother,’ Myrine announced.
Heracles took the deer from his shoulders and laid it on the grass, then took the woman by the hand and raised her to her feet. She looked at his face, then up at the lion’s head above it, a faint expression of repulsion crossing her features.
‘So the gods have brought you to us again,’ she said. ‘Though maybe this time we can be of service to you. The least we can do is feed you and give you shelter.’
He looked around at the cottage and the scattered goats pulling at the grass.
‘The gods have been kind to you after the death of your husband.’
‘I knew times would be hard without him, so I bought some pigs and goats with the silver you gave us. They provide us with milk, cheese and meat, and my husband’s father chops wood; there is always plenty left to trade for whatever else we need. As you say, the gods have been kind. And now they have made our happiness complete by leading you to our home. Myrine, fetch bread, cheese and milk. Our guest is hungry, I can tell, and a man such as he is will have a large appetite.’
He watched the girl run into the house, then turned his gaze on the woman. He saw that she, too, was hungry, though not for food.
‘I am called Heracles,’ he began. ‘Some say I am the son of Amphitryon, though my mother says otherwise.’
He smiled at her, easing the formality between them. She smiled back and looked down at her feet.
‘I am Nesaia,’ she replied. ‘Will you stay with us the night? Or for as long as you have need? Myrine would be very pleased if you did.’
‘Just Myrine?’ he asked. ‘But I can’t accept your offer without the agreement of your father-in-law. Where will I find him?’
‘In the woods, felling trees. Be warned though: he can be rude and short-tempered, even more so since his son was murdered. Why don’t you wait until he returns this evening and let me speak with him? He’ll listen to me.’
‘Thank you, Nesaia. I can fight my own battles.’
‘Then I’ll slaughter a pig ready for your return. Whether Aretos offers you hospitality or not, you will at least eat with Myrine and me.’
‘Gladly, though there’s no need to kill any of your swine. I’ve brought meat,’ he said, pointing to the deer.
Myrine returned with a basket of bread and cheese and a bowl of milk, which she set down on a table on the porch. Nesaia brought him a chair, and remembering his hunger he sat and ate while they watched him. Then he bowed and headed off into the trees. Before long he heard the unmistakable sound of wood being chopped. Following it, he spied a figure through the undergrowth, a long-handled axe in his hands as he took aim at the trunk of a tree. As he came closer, he saw the man had once been tall and muscular, though now he was arched over, with rounded shoulders and arms that were bony and knotted with age. His skin was damp with sweat and his movements were tired and slow.
‘Can I help?’
The man span round, his axe raised over his right shoulder, ready to swing.
‘Who in the name of Hades are you? Come any closer and you’ll find it’s not just trees this axe is good for.’
‘I am Heracles, a friend of your daughter-in-law. She said I’d find you out here.’
Aretos looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on the head of the lion-skin.
‘I’ve never seen you before.’
Heracles stared up at the tree. It was not tall and its bole was slender, no thicker than his own thigh. A few chips had been cut into the grey-green bark and the pale wood beneath, though it was a long way from being felled.
‘Here, you’re tired,’ he said. ‘Let me try.’
He stepped towards Aretos, but the old man raised the axe higher.
‘I’m warning you, stay where you are. You have the look of a bandit about you.’
‘I’m merely a traveller,’ Heracles replied, rubbing his dishevelled beard and running a hand through his hair. ‘Sleeping under the stars for several days doesn’t leave a man looking his best. But I’m no robber.’
He reached out and took the axe. Aretos stumbled back, one hand held out before him like some puny shield. But Heracles did not look at him. Instead, he tested the edge of the blade with his thumb and found it was good. Then, lining himself up beside the tree, he drew the axe back behind his right shoulder and took aim. The thwack of the blow echoed through the trees and a large shard of wood flew out. He followed it with two more quick strikes, each taking out chunks of wood and leaving an angled cut like an open mouth. Switching to the other side of the trunk, he swung the axe a few more times, then – after waving Aretos back – gave the tree a push. It creaked loudly and fell forward with a crash.
The smell of roast meat filled the woods as the two men returned. Heracles carried a large rope net over his shoulder, filled with chopped wood. Aretos walked beside him, axe in hand, whistling happily.
‘Nesaia!’ he called. ‘Where are you, my girl?’
Myrine came running out, with Thoas bounding along at her side. She went to her grandfather and gave him a hug that widened his already broad smile, then fell in beside Heracles and took his free hand in hers. He glanced down at her and gave her a wink, before letting her lead him to the cottage. As he set down the bag of logs beside the porch and removed his lion-skin, Nesaia came out to greet them. Her hair had been pulled down and combed, and she had changed her brown dress for a sleeveless garment, clasped at one shoulder with a fine brooch. She had applied a little powder to lighten her skin and outlined her eyes in black. It was a subtle change, but effective.
‘I was about to send Myrine to find you,’ she said, smiling at Heracles. ‘I’ve prepared a meal for you both.’
‘Well I hope there’s enough of it, Daughter,’ Aretos said. ‘You’ve got two very hungry men to feed. Two trees we felled – two – and chopped them into blocks. There’s a mountain of wood back there; it’ll take me until winter to bring it all back to the cottage.’
‘I’ll help,’ Heracles said, knowing that was why Aretos had said it, and expecting he would leave him to do all the work.
Aretos nodded his thanks and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘You’ll join us for dinner, Nesaia?’ he said, entering the cottage. ‘If Heracles is willing, of course.’
‘I insist on it,’ Heracles replied, folding up his lion-skin and placing it on the floor of the porch. He was forced to stoop beneath the low door to enter. ‘But only if Myrine sits beside me.’
He squeezed the child’s hand and she looked up at him with a beaming grin. The cottage was even smaller than it appeared from the outside, with a small bed at each end of its single room, a hearth in the centre with a spit of roast meat standing over it, and a modest table to one side. But it was tidy – Heracles suspected Nesaia had been working hard during his absence – and the food looked and smelled delicious. They took their seats: Heracles opposite Aretos, with Myrine to his left and Nesaia’s empty chair to his right. She was busy bringing baskets of fresh bread, cheese and fruit to the table, followed by a platter of red meat.
‘If it tastes as good as it looks and smells, Nesaia, then I’ll count all debts repaid,’ he said.
She gave a coy smile and turned to fetch the wine. Heracles noted approvingly her slim waist and wide hips, and felt a stirring in his groin that he had not known for a long time.
‘It’ll taste every bit as good,’ Aretos said, oblivious to the looks that passed between Heracles and his daughter-in-law. ‘I can assure you of that.’
Nesaia brought wine and filled the men’s cups, with a little for Myrine. Aretos rose and walked to the hearth, followed by Heracles. The old man tipped a little of his wine into the flames.
‘May the Olympians bless our meal together,’ he said.
‘And may the father of the Olympians bless this house and all who live in it,’ Heracles added, offering his own libation to the gods.
Nesaia took her place at the table and picked out some smaller pieces of bread and meat to lay on her daughter’s platter.
‘Father, did Heracles tell you it was he who saved us from the bandits on Mount Parnassus?’
Aretos turned to look at Heracles. In a moment, his happy countenance had changed – his eyes suddenly hard and his jaw set.
‘Then you killed the men who murdered my son.’
‘Some of them. Some I sold as slaves.’
The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He threw his arms about Heracles and held him tightly.
‘Why didn’t you say? The trees could have waited – I should have brought you back here at once and slaughtered my best pig in your honour.’
‘We have something better than pork, Father,’ Nesaia said. ‘We have venison. Heracles killed it himself. Sit down and take your fill.’
The men sat and helped themselves to meat and bread, though Aretos’s eyes barely left his guest.
‘I wish I’d been there,’ he said. ‘My son was everything to me. I thank the gods constantly for Nesaia and Myrine – they’re a precious help to me – but when a man gets old, he needs a son to make life bearable. Those brigands took my support from me, may their souls find no peace in the Underworld. At least you saw that justice was done, my friend.’
‘All I saw was a mother and child in the clutches of evil men,’ Heracles replied, giving another glance at Nesaia, who looked back at him with thoughtful eyes. ‘After that I just followed my instincts.’
‘Then your instincts are good,’ Aretos said. ‘And you are welcome in my house for as long as you need to stay here.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Myrine!’ her mother scolded her. ‘It’s polite to leave the questions to your grandfather.’
‘Yes, Mother, of course. But I just wanted to know.’
‘It’s a good question,’ Heracles said, ‘and one your grandfather would have asked me in his own time. But as my lady has asked, I suppose I must answer anyway.’
Myrine shrugged her shoulders and nodded.
‘I didn’t come here to visit old friends. Indeed, how could I have known you lived here? That was the work of the immortals. No, I’ve been sent to hunt a deer.’
‘And found one you have,’ Aretos chortled, holding up a slice of venison.
Heracles shook his head.
‘The creature I’ve been sent to find is a hind. An animal sacred to Artemis, hence one that I cannot harm. Its coat is pure white and it has golden antlers and brazen hooves. I’ve seen it on occasion and come close to it, but it has escaped me every time. For several days I’ve been on its trail, until yesterday’s rain washed it away. I was looking for new tracks this morning when I met Myrine.’
‘You say you were sent,’ Nesaia said. ‘Sent by whom?’
He could sense the surprise in her voice, as if it was inconceivable to her that a man like Heracles should take orders from anyone. Her reaction only deepened the shame he already felt.
‘When we met on Mount Parnassus, I told you I was on my way to consult with the oracle. The Pythoness said that I was to serve the king of Tiryns until certain tasks had been completed.’
‘Tasks?’ Aretos said. ‘How many?’
‘Ten.’
‘And how many have you completed?’
‘This is the second.’
‘What was the first?’ Nesaia asked.
‘That was,’ Heracles answered, pointing at the lion-skin on the porch.
Nesaia exchanged glances with her father-in-law, then let her eyes wander over the fresh scars on Heracles’s upper arms.
‘But why? Why did the Pythoness tell you to complete tasks for this king?’
‘That I am not willing to share. Forgive me, Nesaia.’
‘I saw a white deer,’ Myrine said, picking up another piece of venison and biting into it. ‘I like this meat. It’s better than goat.’
Silence descended on the table.
‘Did you say you’ve seen a white deer?’ Heracles asked.
‘Yes, by one of the streams that feeds down from the mountains.’
‘Does it have golden antlers?’
He splayed his fingers on top of his head, symbolizing what he meant.
‘Yes, she’s very beautiful. I think she likes me, because I’ve seen her there twice – yesterday morning and this morning. She comes out of the woods when I sing.’
The innocence of a child, Heracles thought. Of course – as much as the animal was repulsed by his sins, she was drawn to the girl’s purity. He looked at Nesaia, who seemed to understand what he was thinking. She took a slice of meat from her own plate and gave it to her daughter.
‘Here, have a piece of mine, as you like it so much. Listen, Myrine, do you think the deer will come again if you sing tomorrow morning?’
‘She’s my friend, so maybe. But I don’t think she will stay in the wood for long. She will go soon.’
‘I would like to see her, but she won’t let me near her,’ Heracles said. ‘Do you think if I hid nearby, you could sing to the deer again? So I could see her, you understand.’
‘So you can catch her for your king, you mean?’ Myrine replied, looking him in the eye. ‘Yes, I can, because you saved our lives from those men. And because I heard you say you’re not allowed to harm her.’
Heracles smiled. For the first time since the labour had been given to him, he had a plan to catch the hind. He looked at Nesaia.
‘What did you do with the deer’s skin?’
The cottage was dark and still. A little moonlight washed in through the small windows, silvering the table and chairs at the side of the room. The air still smelled of smoke and roast meat, though there was also the sweeter aroma of the flowers that Nesaia and Myrine had collected from the forest after they had eaten.
Heracles lay with his lion-skin about him, listening to Aretos’s snores and unable to sleep. Maybe he needed to walk and take in the fresh night air. He was about to throw aside his cloak and rise, when he was stopped by a small sound. On the far side of the room, he saw a figure rise from one of the beds. It was Nesaia. She stood, briefly bending over to place the covers back over Myrine, then crossed the room. She opened the door, silhouetted by the faint moonlight outside, and turned to look at Heracles. He could see her slim figure through her nightdress, one long leg bent at the knee, one arm folded across her breasts. Then she closed the door quietly behind her and was gone.
He felt the stirring in his groin again, calling him to follow her. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the company of a woman, and there was something about Nesaia that reminded him of Megara. Her small eyes, perhaps, or that way she had of looking at him as if nobody else mattered. He looked across at the other beds, but Aretos’s snores had remained constant and, through them, he was just able to hear Myrine’s gentle breathing. Pulling his lion-skin aside, he rose and crossed barefoot to the door.
At first he could not see her. Then a pale figure emerged from the shadow of the trees. He crossed the dew-damp grass to where she waited for him, the only sounds the wind rustling the leaves of the wood and the slight movements of the goats inside the stone pen. Nesaia held her hand out for him and silently led him beneath the eaves of the wood, following a narrow path until the cottage was lost from sight. The light from the half-moon cast long shadows and, for a moment, he watched for a glimpse of the white hind among the black boles of the trees. But they were alone.
They reached a space beneath a large tree. Turning, she reached her hands up to his face and ran her fingers through his beard. Wordless, she looked into his eyes, as if feeling for his thoughts. Then she placed her mouth against his. Her lips were cool and soft at first, but as their tongues met, he felt her passion quicken. His large hands slipped around her waist, drawing her body close to his own. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him harder, surrendering to her passions.
Their lips parted and she placed her hands against his chest, pushing him away. She was breathing faster now and there was almost a look of desperation in her eyes. Then she reached down for the hem of her dress and pulled it up over her head. Glancing down, he saw the lines of her ribs and the dash of hair beneath her armpits as her arms were extended upwards. Then she threw the dress aside and laid her hands on his shoulders, leaning back a little to let his gaze explore her nakedness. He reached up to cup one of her breasts, running his thumb over the hard nipple before letting his hand slide down her ribs to rest on her hip.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her.
‘I want you,’ she replied. ‘I wanted you the first moment I saw you, that day on Mount Parnassus. It shamed me then, because my husband had died only the day before. It still does, but I don’t care any more.’
And what of himself, he thought? His wife still lived, and as he looked at Nesaia standing naked before him, he knew that he still loved her. But as he thought of Megara, he remembered her anger, her fierce rejection of him and the terrible pain of it.
Nesaia reached down and touched him through the wool of his tunic. He let his memories of Megara fade, giving in to his desire to feel a woman’s passion again. He pulled the tunic over his head and threw it aside. For a moment, he enjoyed the feel of her eyes roaming across his chest and arms, taking pleasure in the caress of her imagination. Then he leaned down and scooped her up by her buttocks, kissing her hard as she wrapped her legs around his lower back. Soon they were lying in the dew-damp grass, forgetting the scars of their past and succumbing to the needs of their flesh.