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Overview
Haunted by his crimes, he seeks penance with the Delphic oracle and is ordered to complete twelve seemingly unconquerable labors. Armed with superhuman strength and an unshakeable resolve, Heracles must overcome not just the mythical beasts of his trials, but the vengeful gods themselves.
Even for Heracles, redemption will not come easily. He has only one choice: to fight.
An awe-inspiring retelling of the myth of Heracles, Son of Zeus is perfect for fans of Bernard Cornwell, C. F. Iggulden and Simon Scarrow.
Praise for Glyn Iliffe’s Adventures of Odysseus series:
“Suspense, treachery, and bone-crunching action . . . will leave fans of the genre eagerly awaiting the rest of the series.” —The Times Literary Supplement
“A must read for those who enjoy good old epic battles, chilling death scenes and the extravagance of ancient Greece.” —Lifestyle Magazine
“The reader does not need to be classicist to enjoy this epic and stirring tale. It makes a great novel.” —The Historical Novels Review
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781788630276 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Canelo |
| Publication date: | 11/04/2022 |
| Series: | The Heracles Trilogy , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 297 |
| Sales rank: | 692,916 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Glyn Iliffe studied English and Classics at Reading University, where he developed a passion for the stories of ancient Greek mythology. Well travelled, Glyn has visited nearly forty countries, trekked in the Himalayas, spent six weeks hitchhiking across North America and had his collarbone broken by a bull in Pamplona. He is married with two daughters and lives in Leicestershire.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Mother and the Child
The day was hot, so hot that even the breeze drifting down from the mountains gave little comfort. The hum of insects filled the air, mingling with the sound of water floating up from the valley below, where the wandering line of a stream was marked by twisted olive trees. A few goats picked their way across the stony slope below a dirt road, the bells around their necks chiming gently as they tugged at the bleached grass.
Heracles stood on the road and stared westward. He was tall beyond the measure of ordinary men, with a broad, thrusting chest and thickset arms that hung stiffly at his sides. He wore a travel-stained tunic and a cloak that reached down to his bulging calves, which did little to hide the ridges of hardened muscle and sinew beneath. From the slope of his broad shoulders and the swell of his biceps, down to the flat bulk of his stomach and the great girth of his thighs, he was a colossus.
His face was dark and fierce, not the sort of face that most men looked at for long. Behind the thick, black beard, the features were well proportioned – handsome, even – but his stern grey eyes were troubled, as if trapped in some thought or memory. Slowly, he raised a large hand to his forehead and swept a few strands of his shoulder-length hair back into place. He looked along the rutted track, shimmering glass-like in the heat. Some way ahead, it swung around a shoulder of rock – thrust out from the tree-clad foothills of the Pindos Mountains – and disappeared. The smoke of several cooking fires drifted across the clear blue skies beyond, telling him he was not far from the next village. He breathed deeply, taking in the heady fragrance of the pines on the slopes that climbed up to his right, and walked on.
As he neared the bend in the road, he heard the sound of voices and the rattle of a cart coming from up ahead. A dozen men at least, he thought, and instinctively his hand felt for the sword at his side. Only then did he remember Iolaus had insisted he leave his weapons behind, even his beloved bow. Pilgrims did not need weapons, his nephew had said – especially not if they had the height of a bear and the build of an ox. Or if they might be inclined to use them on themselves.
Two men turned the shoulder of rock, too deep in conversation to notice Heracles on the road ahead. One was stocky with dark, serious eyes and a flattened nose that gave his face a sunken appearance. The other was tall and good-looking, but for the pink scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw, carving a track through his neatly cropped beard. Both wore rough woollen cloaks, thrown back over their shoulders to reveal short swords hanging from their belts. That they had once been soldiers was clear to Heracles's knowing eye, though he doubted they served anyone now but themselves. At best, they might be mercenaries. At worst, they used their skills to rob pilgrims going to the oracle on Mount Parnassus.
Three others followed a short way behind, plainly attired and similarly armed, though one carried a half-moon shield slung across his back and another wore a battered and ill-fitting leather breastplate. Two oxen trudged after them, drawing a cart that rattled and shook as it bumped over the furrows in the road. The driver was a fat Aethiope who used his whip with cruel frequency on the backs of the shambling beasts. Another man lay in the rear, snoring loudly with his head thrown back among sacks of grain and jars of wine. A dozen others walked behind the cart, talking and laughing in voices that echoed from the hillside above.
Finally, a woman and a small child came into view, holding hands. Unlike the others, they were silent with downcast faces. The wife and child of one of the men, Heracles wondered? Or a prostitute and her daughter?
As the track was narrow, he decided to let the approaching group pass. Sitting on a boulder beneath the shade of an old olive tree, he uncorked the skin that hung from his shoulder and took a swallow of water. The movement caught the eye of the scar-faced man, who nudged his companion. They stared at Heracles, taking in his great height and heavily muscled frame, noting the broad set of his jaw and his intense, unflinching gaze. Though they could see he carried no weapons, they could not have missed the faded scars on his sun-browned limbs, gained in the many battles he had fought. The shorter man scowled, as if taking offence at the sheer size of the stranger. He spoke to his companion, who shook his head.
As they walked by, Heracles took another mouthful of water and held the skin out towards them. The scar-faced man shook his head. The other spat in the dust, muttering some unheard insult as he wiped a dribble of saliva from his beard. A few months before, Heracles would gladly have taken up the challenge. But he was not the man he had been then, stiff with pride and precious about his hard-won reputation. Events had changed his perspective on life, so that he no longer cared what others thought about him. Indeed, he cared little about anything any more.
The scar-faced man pulled his companion away by the elbow. Their comrades followed, eyeing Heracles's size and build with respectful mistrust. The driver of the cart took a swallow from the wineskin at his side and, staring at Heracles, let out a rolling belch. He tossed the skin onto the stomach of the man behind him, who woke with a start. At a word from the driver, he blinked groggily at Heracles, then turned his attention to the leather bag. He pulled out the stopper and took a long swig, before closing his eyes and dropping back onto the sacks. The group following the cart stared silently at the giant figure sitting beneath the olive tree. Some sneered or made inaudible comments to show they were not afraid. Heracles ignored them.
Of all the party, only the woman did not look at him. He was used to female glances, but she kept her gaze fastened on the road before her feet. She was young and good-looking, and the torn and grubby dress she wore had once been a fine garment – not the clothing of a slave or a peasant. Then he saw the bruises on her arms and the mark on her left cheek, and felt a stab of indignant anger. For a man of violence, he hated to see it inflicted upon the weak and defenceless. But her affairs were no business of his, he reminded himself. Besides, he had problems of his own to sort out.
The girl – no more than five or six years old – trailed along behind her mother, clinging limply to her hand as she stared at Heracles. Children had always delighted him. They bore the concerns of the world more lightly than adults, and yet they were more vulnerable, a quality that had always appealed to his protective instincts. As he looked at her, he thought of his own children: of Therimachus, his oldest boy, who was the same age as her; of Creontiades, just three, who never walked anywhere if he could go there on his father's shoulders; and of Deicoon, still a babe, but who looked so much like his mother. He had always thought that he could keep them safe. But he had been wrong.
He felt his despair return at the thought of them. Clenching his fists on his knees, he fought against the rising darkness. The girl was still looking at him, and though her eyes were filled with sadness, they showed no fear or mistrust – not of him, at least, despite his great size and fierce looks. Unexpectedly, her grimy face broke into a smile. It was as if she sensed the torment inside him and wanted to tell him it would not last forever. He smiled back, but she was already being pulled away by her mother.
'Stop!'
The woman looked back at him, as if waking from a dream. Then a look of alarm gripped her features. She shook her head at him and turned away, dragging her daughter with her.
'Wait. I have something for you.'
He put his hand into the leather pouch at his hip and pulled out half a loaf of bread. As the child saw it, she remembered her hunger and her expression became pained. She tugged at her mother's hand to prevent her walking away, and with the other reached out for the bread. The woman relented, a look of helpless concern in her eyes. Heracles broke the bread in two as he approached and offered a piece to the child. She slipped her fingers from her mother's grip and snatched it from him.
'Eat, child,' he encouraged her, trying to smile.
The girl bit into the food, eating quickly and noisily. He placed his hand on her head, remembering the feel of his own children's hair and sensing the longing for them in his heart.
'This is for you,' he added, handing the remainder to the mother. 'You look like you haven't eaten in a week.'
The woman shook her head and glanced nervously over her shoulder at the men, who had resumed their loud conversations.
'Leave us alone,' she hissed. 'We don't need your help or want it. For all our sakes, just go.'
'But why?' the girl protested. 'He's kind, like Father was.'
'Where is your father?' Heracles asked, giving her the other piece of bread.
'He's dead,' the woman answered. 'They murdered him. And they'll do the same to you if you don't go at once.'
'Bandits,' he sneered, feeling a pulse of anger. 'What did they do to your husband?'
'We were pilgrims. They surrounded us on our return from the oracle, and when he tried to resist they killed him. And now they're taking us to sell as slaves.'
'What's going on?'
One of the men had stopped and was glaring at them. A few of the others turned at the sound of his voice. The woman stared up at Heracles, her eyes wide with fear now.
'For her sake,' she said, pulling her daughter to herself, 'please go. Please go.'
'I said what's going on?' the man shouted, his face flushed with anger now.
Heracles looked at him, then down at the woman and her daughter. He could still do as she was begging him to; he could walk away and leave them to their fate. The woman might get a beating, but they would not want to damage her looks too much – not if they wanted a good price for her. And her daughter might do well for herself, if she was sold to a decent household. Besides, it was not for him to interfere in whatever plans the gods had for them. His business was with the oracle, and if he left now he could still get there before nightfall.
But there were those who had other uses for children of her age, he thought. And what if the gods had planned for him to save the girl? As for the oracle, his questions could wait.
He looked down at the woman and her daughter.
'I'm not going anywhere,' he said.
'Leave them alone,' the man shouted, drawing his sword and striding towards them. 'You're slowing us down.'
The woman grabbed one of Heracles's massive hands and kissed it, before pushing her daughter towards him.
'Then help us,' she pleaded. 'In Hera's name, take Myrine and run. I don't care what they do to me, just save my child.'
The bandit seized the woman's hair and dragged her back, throwing her to the ground.
'Give the little one to me,' he said, reaching for the child.
Heracles pulled her behind him.
'I'll buy them both.'
'You couldn't afford them,' called the stocky man with the broken nose, leaning against the cart.
Heracles reached into his pouch and pulled out two flat oblongs of metal.
'A silver ingot each. That's more than any slave is worth.'
A murmur spread among the watching bandits. The woman rose to her feet and moved to one side, beckoning her daughter to join her. The man put away his sword and took the ingots from Heracles's hand. He examined them closely, trying to bend them with his fingers.
'They're real,' he called back.
'Then there's more where they came from,' said the flat-nosed man. 'Give us the rest, friend, and we'll let you live.'
Heracles signalled to the woman.
'Take Myrine over to the tree and cover her eyes,' he said. 'Cover your own too.'
The nearest bandit stuffed the ingots into his pouch and made a grab for his sword. Before he could wrap his fingers around the hilt, Heracles took him by the shoulders and butted him hard in the face. The man's nose split open, pouring blood over his mouth and chin, and he went limp. His comrades gave a shout of rage and drew their weapons, four of them rushing forward to attack. Heracles lifted his unconscious victim easily over his head and hurled him at the oncoming brigands.
Three were knocked onto their backs in a sprawl of arms and legs, but the fourth ran on, wielding a double-bladed axe. With a rage-filled cry, he brought it down at Heracles's chest. Heracles caught the haft with his out-thrust hand and ripped it from the man's grip. Tossing it aside, he drew back his fist and slammed it into his attacker's jaw with enough force to fell an ox. There was a crack of bone and the man was thrown backwards, spitting blood and teeth. He landed in a heap some way from the road and remained still.
The other three scrambled from beneath the unconscious body of Heracles's first victim and ran back to their comrades. Having witnessed the strength of their opponent, the rest of the group were less keen to rush him. Instead, at the command of the scar-faced man, they drew their weapons and spread out in a semi-circle.
Heracles looked at the ring of gleaming bronze and thought of the dark tragedy that had so recently thrown his life into chaos. All he needed to do was walk forward and the misery would be over. He had tried once already, only for Iolaus to save him. But Iolaus was not with him now.
Then he heard the child sobbing with fear at the shouts of the men closing around them, and the hushed words of her mother as she tried to calm her. However deep his own grief and despair, did he have the right to give up his life if it meant them being sold into slavery? His friend King Thespius had told him to go to the oracle and ask what penance the gods demanded of him for his crime. Perhaps this was his penance – to save them.
But strength alone would not be enough to defeat a band of thieves and murderers, each of them armed while he carried nothing. The woman and child were huddled together beneath the olive tree he had sat under earlier. Striding towards them, he seized hold of a large branch and wrenched it off with a grunt. He stripped away the foliage and tested the weight of the club he had made.
'Come on, then,' said the man with the broken nose, stepping forward with his sword in his hand. 'I've felled bigger men than you.'
'And I've killed smaller men than you,' Heracles replied.
He swung the club. The man raised his sword, but the force of the blow smashed through his arm with a snap of bone and swept him from his legs. He was thrown across the road and landed against the back of the cart, slumping to the ground with barely a grunt.
At a signal from the scar-faced man, several of the others rushed forward. One – quicker than the rest – came at Heracles from his right, but was flattened by a backward swing of his club. Two more fell as he brought it back again, crushing the upper arm and ribs of the first and driving him sidelong into the second so that both were sent tumbling across the dirt track into the grass verge.
A fourth attacker lunged with the point of his sword. Heracles twisted aside at the last moment, the edge of the blade slashing open his tunic and grazing the surface of the hard muscles beneath. The sting of the wound produced a furious reaction in him. Taking hold of the man's wrist, he twisted it hard. There was a crack and the bandit shrieked with pain, letting his weapon fall to the ground. Resisting the temptation to pull the man's head under his arm and snap his neck, Heracles picked him up by his arms and – with a half-turn, as if he were throwing a discus – he hurled him onto the verge at the side of the road. He landed with a thud and a groan, and after a weak effort to pull himself away, collapsed and lay still.
A sudden blow to Heracles's shoulder sent a hot stab of pain shooting down through his chest. He staggered backwards, clutching at the arrow buried in the muscle. With an angry shout, he wrenched it free and sent it spinning into the trees. Scanning the semi-circle of brigands, he picked out a figure standing in the back of the wagon. The drunkard had woken from his stupor and now stood with an empty bow in his hand, his right hand still hovering by his ear where it had released the arrow. With a victorious hoot, he reached down to the leather quiver gripped between his knees and pulled out a second dart.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Son of Zeus"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Glyn Iliffe.
Excerpted by permission of Canelo Digital Publishing.
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