Hercules and the Nemean Lion, part 3 (Patreon)

Hercules was close to Cleonae, but he was too tired to continue. He sat on the side of the path and put his bundle next to him. The battle had been long, but he had prevailed, and the Nemean Lion’s cured hide was his proof.

Someone should have warned him that the skin could not be pierced by a weapon. Zeus must have known. Maybe Molorchus and the others in the small village knew as well, but Hercules tended to assume they had not thought it important. Molorchus probably believed that Hercules had called his hands his greatest weapon because he knew they were the only weapons that could end the life of the great monster.

After unwrapping his hand, he checked the damage again. Another inch and he would have lost his smallest finger and a good bit of the side of his hand, but the wound seemed to be healing well. His fingers were stiff and slow to bend, but that would ease with time.

A stick lay nearby, and Hercules picked it up and traced the symbol for Zeus in the dirt. His father had not shown up during the long weeks of stalking the monster or the short fight where had had finally choked the beast to death since he could not stab it. Perhaps he was off countering some move of Hera’s. No doubt she’d expected him to die.

Hercules had settled in for a bout of self pity when someone shouted. When he turned, a young boy was careening down the rocky hillside, his arms widespread as if to either take flight or to try and prevent himself from falling flat on his face. “You’ve returned! You’ve returned! Everyone! Hercules is back!” The boy seemed to run out of air, so by the time he skidded to a stop near Hercules, he was panting. “Did you kill the monster?”

Hercules chuckled. “What sort of hero would I be if I couldn’t kill one beast?” He patted the bundle next to him, and the boy’s eyes got large.

“It’s in there?” the boy whispered in awe.

“Its hide, yes,” Hercules agreed. “And what is your name, boy?”

“Euandros, sir. I saw you… when you came through… really… the hide is in there?” He couldn’t be more than ten, and like most children, his mind seemed determined to flit about like a grasshopper—jumping first one direction and then the other. He reminded Hercules of Klonus. Of all Hercules’s children, that boy had never slept. He was a ball of endless energy. Hercules heard a shout, and he looked up to see herders coming over the hill. Several called his name, and Hercules raised an arm in greeting.

“Yes, boy,” Hercules said, “the lion’s pelt is in here.” Despite his weary bones, he pushed himself up to his feet to greet the coming me.

“Can I see it?”

Hercules longed to ruffle the boy’s hair, but Euandros was of an age where he likely would not appreciate the gesture, even if it came from a great hero—and right now Hercules felt every inch the hero. He might be a slave, but that did not diminish him in the eyes of these people or in his own heart. And if he said that often enough, he might believe the latter statement.

“Tonight, when we eat or tomorrow during the sacrifice Molorchus has promised me, yes you may see the great lion.”

The boy fell silent, his eyes large, and Hercules turned his attention to the men. They all greeted him with bright smiles and more than a little shock. As Molorchus was working for a farmer in distant fields, they all accompanied Hercules back to Cleonae, walking around him like an honor guard. Soon the air was full of shouts and women brought out breads and cheeses and offered pillows for him to put on the ground. 

“How did you discover the beast could be strangled?” one of the men asked, Hercules thought his name was Hylarion.

“I had tried everything else, and since I was clinging to his back trying to escape his claws, it seemed a good time to try it.” Hercules laughed at his own wit, and those around him joined in. A lad who had not a single hair on his face kept inching closer, and Hercules played with the idea of bedding him. But each time he considered it, for some reason the image of Bythios would appear in his mind’s eye. The man was rough and scarred where this one was young and beautiful, but at least Bythios wouldn’t lay there and expect Hercules to gentle his touches. No, Bythios would tie him down and use him so hard that Hercules would need his divine gifts to be able to walk in the morning. For some reason, that made the boy seem pale and uninteresting in comparison, and it made the lasses that sought his attention even less appealing.

“The great Zeus must have given you strength,” another said.

Agreement was on the tip of Hercules’ tongue, but he hesitated. If Zeus had helped, he had kept his assistance quiet. Hercules’ father was many things, but subtle was not one. However, to say so out loud was to risk divine punishment. “No doubt he did,” Hercules agreed.

“Can we see it now? Can we see the lion? Please?” a boy a few years younger than Euandros begged. From the way Euandros had been at the boy’s side, Hercules guessed that the older boy had prodded him into asking. Therimachus used to do that. He would want something so much that he would pester Megara until she was half mad with frustration and she’d go after him with a switch. And then Therimachus had learned to use his brothers as proxies. He would get Klonus to beg one day, and Deicoon the second and Creontiades the third. They would take turns besieging their poor mother until Hercules would come home for a time, and take them all out on some adventure.

Hercules’ smile faded. He would never again have the pleasure of going home and rescuing Megara from them. Ten years of slavery meant that they would all be men before Hercules dared to see them again… assuming he ever saw his children. They would fall in love and he would never tease them about their foolish love-sick antics. Even if he survived ten years of fighting monsters, he would still lose. 

“Of course,” Hercules said after shoving all his emotions into a small corner of his mind. He pulled the leather satchel close and began to unlace the leather bindings. The lion’s head was near the top, and everyone gasped as the bag opened to show the huge skull. The eyes were gaping holes, so malevolence and hatred no longer shone from those orbs, but the sharp teeth and thickly furred mane were all intact as was the main part of the hide, down to the tail. Hercules had taken the time and effort to preserve it.

“What will you do with it?” one of the women asked.

Hercules ran his hand over the soft fur. “I will present it to my cousin, King Eurystheus.”

“Why?” the youngest boy asked. His mother hushed him with a look of horror, so Hercules could imagine the story had reached even this remote part of the world.

“Because I was struck mad by an angry god, and I committed great sins,” Hercules said, as he kept his eyes on his trophy. “I must atone for my sins, and the oracle commanded me to spend ten years serving my cousin.” He waited for the verbal attack—for the accusations and hatred. However, when he looked up, these people seemed to look at him with sympathy. One of the oldest women, a crone with deep wrinkles, struggled to her feet, walked to his side, and patted him on the shoulder.

“The gods play with all of us. When you are as old as I, you will see that,” she offered in a gentle voice.

He smiled. “Thank you, grandmother.”

She hummed and walked away, her footsteps unsteady. One of the young women got up and hurried after her.

“We must focus on the celebration and tomorrow’s sacrifice,” Molorchus cried out with a cheer that did not match the suddenly dark mood. “The lion is gone, and soon pilgrims will begin to come through here again, seeking refreshment and willing to spend coin.” A cheer went up at that and then another and another until they were all singing. The gods had their games, but humans would always find joy.

Hercules reached for a chunk of heavy barley bread and relish of cabbage and onions. He added the shredded meat of some cooked fowl and took a large bite. It was simple food, but honest and good.

“Momma, can I have some?” a girl of five or six asked. Her mother hushed her with an embarrassed expression, and Hercules carefully kept his gaze diverted. Women and small children always ate later, but he remembered his frustration at having to wait. He had broken more than a few of his mother’s dishes in protest.

Her mother was making quiet promises and whispered threats when the girl practically wailed, “but there is no more, and if they eat it all, there is none left for us.”

The food suddenly tasted like ash in Hercules’ mouth, and he waited for someone to correct her. Anyone. The gathering was silent, and Hercules looked at the offering in front of him. He had eaten at least half the bread and much of the chickpeas, since they were a favorite. There was very little cheese remaining, and Hercules felt shame at the realization that he did not know how much he had taken. The only thing left in abundance was the relish of cabbage and onion. Onions were the food of soldiers, and eating them reminded Hercules too much of the times he had marched with the army, so he had avoided taking much.

“Do not worry about the girl. This is a celebration,” Molorchus said, but his smile was a little too wide and his voice too loud. Hercules looked around and saw the desperation on many of the faces.

“Eat. You are our guest,” Hylarion urged him.

Hercules finished chewing and looked at the food still in his hand. He was not truly hungry, and yet he continued to eat as if this were symposium and eating and drinking overmuch were required of all men of good manners. “The food is excellent, but even a hero cannot eat his own weight in food,” Hercules said. His tone sounded strange, even to his own ears, but the others laughed, and the women began to thank him for his compliments.

He urged them to take the rest of the food away, watching as the children hurried after women who would have only crumbs and a few vegetables to offer their hungry children. Perhaps tomorrow he could hunt. Even in a rocky place like this, they would have hares and fowl. He promised himself that he would not leave them to suffer hunger because of his appetite. The silent promise was enough to keep him from being ill from the weight of the food in his stomach.

Hercules and the Nemean Lion

Part One 

Part Two 

Part Three 

Part Four 

Part Five 

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