Heracles: The Ambrosia of Crete: Heracles, #2

By Nicholas McAuliff

The return of a hero brings stability to a fractured kingdom. But seven years later, an unearthed, ancient magic is poised to break both hero and kingdom.

Heracles lives and works in solitude alongside his nephew and best friend, Iolaus the blacksmith of outer Athens. Now, Heracles has traded his sword for a workman's hammer, his unpredictable blood rage for a life of sobriety and peace. But his sanctuary is threatened when messengers of Eurystheus, the power-hungry king of Argos, arrive at Iolaus's village with an accusation. And with it, Heracles's honor is questioned.

A pestilence is spreading throughout Greece, one that is said to come from the skies – fierce as thunder – one that terrorizes farmers and aristocrats alike. Theseus, a young hero returned from a disastrous battle in southern Crete, delivers a cryptic warning at the summer Hermaea festivals.

Heracles has spent the last seven years painstakingly rebuilding his reputation. The demigod must forgive himself for the sins of his past if he is to track down the origin of this pestilence and keep his honor intact. Old and new heroes will reluctantly unite once more, but not without a great sacrifice.

Heracles: The Ambrosia of Crete is the second book in the Heracles series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas McAuliff
• Release date: Jun 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227249524

Nicholas McAuliff

Nicholas McAuliff is the author of the Heracles series. The author lives in the heart of the rockies and he enjoys prospecting and fishing and gardening whenever there is a lull in his work. 

Book preview

Prologue

From the ruin of old Athens, there out of the burning bramble rose a monolithic shadow.

Flanking him stood a sinewy archer, a stout swordsman of red hair, a short companion wielding a crude mace.

The shadow did not have a face.

Peasants and artisans the same shouted thus:

There be Heracles, the defier, the demigod, the warlord!

There be Heracles, the wanderer!

There be Heracles, the lost!

He has returned, you fools, scolded the Arab trader.

Camp was risen and the night risen and the engineers sparred for the honor of rebuilding the golden city.

Hundreds peered at the fire of commanders, glowing a radiant black.

The companions, their eyes glimmering from the black, yet the shadow had no face.

The grey rain fell.

Its lumbering shape peered from the black.

The hoplites spoke of a shadow from Hades, a betrayer, a murderer of women and children.

The alabaster herder glode to the shadow and thanked the savior of Athens; his sheep were behind him.

It replied: I am merely the clay, the shadow be the savior.

––––––––

Glaucus the poet (of Argos)

Seven winters after the Battle of Athens – 1230 BC  

I

With a somber glow the moon hung over the fens, amber and rust, and the ring around it

seemed to breathe with the living creatures of night which were enshrouded in its glow. As the moon grew, so too did the song of the katydids and treefrogs and other hidden things of the midnight forest. It was a moon the old man had seen thousands of times prior, but there was something primordial about this moon in particular. Like the slanted snows of a nor’easter over the frozen combers, like the stifled cry of a fox ensnared by a wolf.

The man surveyed that scene ahead, the fens bathed in the moonlight, and indeed he longed for the daylight now. He collapsed onto his knees and caught himself with a gasp. His hands sunk into the wetlands and the cool on his wrists felt good to him. He allowed himself to sink down and he sat cross-legged in the swamp, nightly animals singing around him, and he wheezed heavily and his thin white hair was wild, as were his eyes. He looked behind, to where an expanse of strangely thin firs stood, some bare of pine needles. The forest was pitch, like no moonlight would enter there at all. He stepped up on one foot, then the next. With a bleeding hand, he lifted the lapel of his heavy tunic and out shot a purple glow which radiated onto his face and seemed to hover in the ether.

This was a purple deeper than lavender, more splendid than amethyst. The man closed his lapel after checking his prize and the glow disappeared at once. Three fingers were severed completely and two looked broken and bent backwards.

The man’s eyes changed and his breathing slowed and it was as if he regained some lost composure. He rose and he ran towards the open patches of meadow grasses beyond, those that were illuminated by the moon. He ran for what seemed longer than was possible for a man of his age and stature. He ran until the moon’s position had visibly shifted in the sky. In his most joyous dreams, the man saw the dawn of light peaking over the turquoise sea to the east. But a dread crept into his nerves as he realized that the night was still very young.

Past the meadows, he was in another forest of pine. This one, like the one he had left behind, was devoid of even the moonlight. Yet his exhaustion had grown to an intolerable level; it was as if the pines beckoned him to rest in their deep-green embrace. A thick branch wobbled back and forth as a startled owl took flight, up and away from this crazed man.

Finally, a glade within the pines. The source of some newfound light. The moon’s rays touched down here and they lit up the crabgrass which was speckled with a light veil of dew. The man, perhaps in a delirium or perhaps in exhaustion, thought of his three sons. He imagined if he saw them again, that they would look favorably upon him for the first time in his sixty one years. He thought of all the things that would be begotten with the magnificence that he now smuggled. Flashes of red and black clouded his vision and each breath was laborious and heavy. He heard the sound of his own breath – saw his own breath funneling out in front of him in the cool of the night – and it reminded him of the last few moments of his own father’s life, that which he had witnessed so many years prior. Cobbler, and son of a cobbler. The man thought again to what his newfound treasure would beget. Never again would he mend shoes for some son of a rich wine merchant of Samos. Never again would he be talked down to by a Minoan aristocrat who had never felt the pain of calloused hands. Who had never labored from sunup to sundown under the pain of that very same sun. Were he dead, none of it would matter.

He would need to take a chance, here in this hidden glade.

The man rested his head sideways on his arm, satisfied that the seclusion of this meadow, surrounded by thorn, would be a sound place to seek refuge. The man felt the strange and troubling sensation of risk; the mere thought that he could still be discovered while sleeping. But the cool dew on his face was more inviting.

So he lie and as he dream, he saw glorious sights of purple skies and golden halls and endless pleasures of both the flesh and of the soul. He forgot where he was as sleep almost took him completely.

Then came a rising growl, deep and resonant. The man thought at first he was still dreaming. It sounded like the growl of a cornered dog, were that dog the size of an ox. The sound of a horse’s hooves came now, like a slow trot.

The man was motionless and his throat dry, he now knew the fool that he was. Without looking back, he could sense the thing looming more closely, the trotting sound of hooves gradually becoming heavier and picking up in speed and intensity. He tried to turn, but he was paralyzed.

Again, the rising growl, in the glade now. The sound of running hooves.

The man screamed. A massive force that sent a shock of lightning up into his thigh rapidly did the same to his other knee. The man’s wails of agony could not keep up with the pain of his body, that which was almost incomprehensible. But there was no mercy to be had here, no reason or appeal to high morals or emotion. In this world of agony and terror, the man’s last thought was to that of his youngest grandson, running over the limestone and spilling a handful of seashells he had gathered down on the beaches below during low tide. He heard the laughter of his son at these antics and he saw his grandson gathering his fallen shells. Another shock of lightning went through what was left of the old man’s body. The man’s screams intensified and turned into a continuous howl as his elbows and hips were crushed, the bones worked over by cloven feet.

There was the call of an owl somewhere off in the distant trees, but no other answer to the man’s despair. The bizarre growl of the punishing thing above him actually drowned out the man’s cries. It was as if the kill weren’t enough, and the ultimate act of dominance was had by silencing the man’s final shouts in this world.

A pile of glowing, enigmatic purple embers sat undisturbed now on the moist grasses. The same owl that had once retreated came back and hopped over to the purple glowing mass, almost gleefully. It tilted its head to the side and the purple glow seemed to fill up its large saucer eyeballs. It ate from the mass as if the embers were a fat field-mouse, and at this instant, the owl started to bulge and grow unnaturally. With disturbing speed and silence, its eyes widened to the size of a man’s hands. The thing above was watching. As the owl ate, the rest of the purple embers were collected and the sound of hooves returned but they were no longer running, rather walking slowly out and away from the glade as the owl’s screams replaced that of the old man’s.  

II

It had the body of a lion. Just as it had in waking life. But larger; far too large. It was greater than the Hydra and more muscular than the hero himself. And the claws, the same - swords under a great feline’s feet. But the face was different.

From its eyes came the dreadful despair of the unknown. The outer; that dark and deep place where neither heroes nor gods dare venture. The face of the first labor was of the brilliant sun above. It shone out and around and blinded the hero in its path of radiance.

Why? the demigod cried.

His voice bounced off the cold, rocky walls and echoed throughout the cave.

Behind him, more frosty rock to end his backward steps through the cave. To the front, the monstrosity prowled and crept, keeping its gargantuan body low to the ground. As it stepped, its claws slowly dragged the stones through the loose rock and it echoed deeply. The demigod kept his eyes on the thing, but struggled to keep them open for more than a mere second. The sun radiated from the lion’s face. The blinding, all powerful sun of Helios. It didn’t make sense. But nothing was accidental. 

It wasn’t like this!

The hero covered his stinging, watering eyes. He swung his short sword wildly, slicing the unseen air. In his slumbering heart, the warrior felt the same icy-dread that he had felt in the cave that spring night. With the Nemean Lion, the devourer of men and monsters, the conqueror of the wild.

The lion crept further, slowly, methodically. The walls of rock behind were gone now. There was now only darkness, running through an infinite tunnel.

He looked down. The sword shook in his hands, just as it had. A cold, wet sweat blistered the skin between his palm and the hilt. He turned toward the dark, infinite tunnel, where he froze. The light shined still, and seemed to trap him in place. No force of strength could free him. The sun seemed to live now, it snaked toward the hero’s periphery and curved around to envelope him. Still he remained frozen, face tense and sweat stuck to his forehead. The lion crept, as did the terror. He screamed.

Heracles!

A voice in the waking night.

The demigod shot up. Around the room, all hazy except for Althaia. The winds blew softly out in the dark blue evening air. The cricket’s song was overwhelming, but beautiful.

Heracles! Althaia snapped again, louder.

Now, no more daze. Only the waking presence of the wife of his nephew and best friend. Iolaus lie sleeping soundly, just yonder atop the high loft. Heracles noticed the few, discernible lines of age in Althaia’s face.

Titans, how much has changed, he thought. 

The crickets sang relentlessly.

Ah, Althaia. I am alright.

Althaia smiled, rose and whisked her way back up to the loft to join her husband once more in the temporary stillness of the night. Her white, smooth shawl reflected the tiniest bit of light throughout the hut. 

His chest rose and fell, and a general unease came about him. It seemed to always happen like this: when he slept. When he slept, he was vulnerable. And when vulnerable, he knew fear. The unease seemed to have a life of its own, breathing with the very rhythm of the night. His eyes closed, albeit troubled.

The day was welcomed after a troubled night. Sleep could be sweet, but depending on its contents, the dawn could be sweeter still. 

Maybe when you are done pondering with the clouds, you may care to start working. Iolaus stood firm, hands on his hips.

With a sigh, the demigod lumbered toward the open door. The open air. He sighed again, and Iolaus eyeballed him.

Heracles leaned his mass against the doorframe, crossing his arms. In his field of view, a cool, crisp layer of thick mist layered the yellow flowers where the meadow grasses met the woods.

Two villagers pretended to have a purpose in walking by Iolaus’s hut, all obviously glaring at the hero in the doorway.

Ah! Heracles jested in satisfaction. Nephew, after the day’s labor, let us refuge in the forest this night. I could use a hearty fire-roasted meal, and some solace from the gossip and the tavern flutes.

Aye, Heracles.

As they worked, the sounds of iron hammers slamming into spiked-nails, aggrandized in size, made a constant song as broad workers grunted in unison. One, two, three, four, five strikes.  A spike was in its place. Another worker: one, two, three. Heracles, in a rhythmic motion, readied the spike and with one, single strike, sent the whole thing into the beam. A worker looked on, then quickly went back to his own labor.

You dreamed of it again, said Iolaus.

Heracles grunted.

You’ve never talked about it, not once, Iolaus replied as he wiped away a layer of sweat from his forehead.

Heracles remained steadfast, stern, firm. He drove a spike into the beam with a single strike, where other men took four or five.

You’ve made fun of Geryon during drinking. I still have nightmares about that thing, and I was watching from the ship, Heracles.

Heracles didn’t answer. He lined up another spike, sweat dripping from his brow.

Heracles...

Rah! and with a single strike, Heracles answered.

Why have you never talked about it, the lion? The only labor you refuse to speak off.

It possessed something, some force that I have not seen since. I have not been able to grasp it, Iolaus. But as I brought the sword down unto it, it looked at peace.

You burned the great mane after the battle of Athens.

Aye, Heracles said as he drove another nail into the beam with one, single strike. That era is over.

III

Heracles was bored by the tavern, by the commotion. He bit into a roast. He eyeballed a woman, whose smile lit up like the dawn as he did so. 

Boredom again. Her smile shrank. 

His eyes went into the moonlight. He felt Iolaus’s energy come up behind him.

Do you miss the journey already, uncle?

Aye, Heracles whispered. 

Seven winters is enough time for you to rest.

I will never have rest, not until my days are done. Nikomedes said so.

The night sky was lighter than usual, though only a sliver of the moon shone above. Iolaus downed a cup of wine. Then another, and another in rapid succession. Heracles smirked, and rose to his feet, the mere act of doing so drawing the attention of most in the tavern. As he made his way out to the open air, their eyes followed.

The air feels of spring, came a woman’s voice.

Heracles looked back over his shoulder, where Iolaus’s wife stood with a smile on her face, as usual. 

Aye, he said as he turned back toward the dark night. "The spring winds are still here, Althaia. Not yet charred by the summer infernos from