Excerpt: The Last Labour by Anna Lamnari

Chapter One

Herakles

Eurystheus had placed his throne where the sun would blind any man who tried to look him in the eye.

Herakles stood below, in the full glare of it, and did not lower his gaze.

Behind him, the cattle of Geryon filled the courtyard, shifting and stamping, their journey at an
end. The red hides burning in the light of the setting sun drew whispers of admiration from the
gathered crowd. The air hummed with anticipation.

Ten years. Ten labors.

It was finished.

Herakles stood before Eurystheus and waited for the word that would release him.

Eurystheus offered the arrivals a thin-lipped smile. The sight of the herd visibly pleased him.
How could it not? Yet, when he looked at his cousin, returned once again alive and triumphant, his
eyes hardened.

“Well,” he said at last. “The cattle of Geryon, here in Mycenae. Magnificent beasts.”

The rare words of praise coming from Eurystheus stirred applause from the gathered crowd.

Indeed, the world hadn’t seen animals that could rival their beauty. What a fitting ending to the great
hero’s journey to redemption.

The king paused, then turned, almost lazily, to his second-in-command.

In an instant, Herakles saw the decision had been made long before he arrived.

“Have them sacrificed. Every last one, to Hera, mother of the gods, who watches over all.”

The murmur of shock, even a few gasps of protest, rolled through the crowd. Eurystheus’ hand
rose and the courtyard fell into silence.

 

He now looked directly at Herakles.

“And hear me further,” he continued. “Ten labors I set. Ten labors for you to perform. Yet two I
do not accept.”

A flick of his hand towards Iolaus.

“The Hydra was not slain by your hand alone.”

The memory rose unbidden. The marsh. The stench. The creature coiling and recoiling, heads
multiplying faster than his sword could cut them down. Strength had failed him there. Strength had
made it worse.

That was why he had relied on Iolaus. With each head severed, Iolaus seared the stump with a
torch, stopping the regeneration, and allowing the fight to end.

“And Augeas’ stables?” Eurystheus continued, with a note of righteous disapproval. “You turned
the rivers, instead of cleaning them with your own hands.”

That labor was the one of which he was most proud. It demanded not just strength, but
ingenuity. He had dug trenches deep and wide enough to change the course of two rivers, washing
away the filth left by three thousand cattle over thirty years. All in a single day. Eurystheus called it
cheating. Herakles knew it for what it was: the work required to fulfill the impossible task.

“You commanded me to cleanse them,” said Herakles, his eyes narrowing. “I cleansed them.”

“Ah, yes,” Eurystheus replied softly. “You found a way around the task. As you always do.”

A beat.

“No, cousin. These two I reject. You will perform two more.”

Herakles could hear the pulse of his own blood pounding in his ears. Heavy and slow. His sight
narrowed to the exclusion of everything else but Eurystheus’ head, his neck, pale above the collar, a
target in the center.

It would be easy. Easier than any labor.

A few steps. One hand.

Royal guards behind the king shuffled uneasily. They felt it, too.

Chiron, his mentor, the wisest of all centaurs, saw these flashes of destructive fire in Herakles,
long before they became his undoing. His voice came back, steady as stone.

Let the breath be your first sentence.

The depth of your silence will speak for you.

But breath did not quiet the past. Silence did not erase what he had done.

This was his penance. No labor would ever be enough.

The pain struck low beneath his ribs, acute and sudden. His body folded inward against it, as
though to contain a wound that would not close.

As it should be.

Gaze trained to stay on the target lowered, dragged down by shame, Herakles slowly exhaled.
Eurystheus.

His liege. His taskmaster. His kin.

The man who sat on a throne that should have been his.
✧✧✧

Though bound by blood, they were almost strangers. Before the oracle of Delphi sent Herakles
to Mycenae to receive his punishment, they had met only once. Eurystheus’ father, Sthenelaus, had
descended on Thebes to demand higher tribute. It was not a friendly visit. Sthenelaus and his twelve-
year-old son arrived surrounded by a small army of Mycenaean soldiers, a force the lesser city of
Thebes could not hope to match.

This is how you rule, Sthenelaus seemed to be saying to his son. Strike fear. Dominate.

Yet while Sthenelaus strode through the Theban court as if he already owned it, his son lingered
in the shade of the arcades surrounding the courtyard, drawn by the clamor of weapons.

Herakles had been sparring with two soldiers. A wooden practice sword in his hand against a
bronze blade and a spear. The clash rang across the courtyard like hammer on anvil. Dust rose under
their stamping feet and the sharp tang of sweat and oiled leather filled the air. He broke the first
man’s guard, drove the breath from him. Turned the second aside and struck his wrist hard enough
to send the sword clattering across stone.

The soldiers were older and hardened by real battle.

It did not matter.

Even then, Herakles had been too much.
Though born only hours apart, Herakles and Eurystheus could not have been more different. At
twelve, Herakles already stood nearly the size of a grown man. Eurystheus, with his narrow chest
and rounded shoulders, looked frail and younger than his years.

Herakles’ laughter carried across the courtyard, full and unrestrained, echoing against the stone
walls. Eurystheus had spoken only once during the entire visit. His voice had been high and strained,
tight as a drawn cord, and the words ended in a coughing fit.

Here in the courtyard, he made no sound at all. The shadows of the arcade swallowed him, while
the noon sun blazed across the flagstones. His eyes never left his cousin, following every step, every
turn of the sparring blade.

At last Herakles felt the weight of that stare and turned.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

Herakles lifted his hand in greeting.

Eurystheus flinched, took a quick step back, and slipped behind the column, as though the
shade might conceal the envy that had betrayed him.
✧✧✧

Now he stood at the top of the stairs, forcing Herakles to lift his gaze. Each time Herakles
returned to Mycenae from a labor, his cousin seemed to be standing a little higher, a little farther
away. From below, with advisers and guards gathered about him, Eurystheus seemed every inch a
king, wrapped in a royal cloak of deep purple. The garment was cleverly cut to broaden his
shoulders and lend him an air of stature. Yet from where Herakles stood, he could see the cloth
straining faintly across the softness of his middle. The rich dye only deepened the shadows beneath
his eyes, as though sleep had long avoided him.

Eurystheus, no longer able to return his gaze, addressed the crowd in the courtyard, instead.

“As your next labor, you will bring me the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides.”
Gasps of incredulity traveled through the crowd, like a wind through a field. Eurystheus’
requests had been escalating from challenging to impossible to murderous. This was not a challenge,
but a death sentence.

The garden of the Hesperides lay at the far western edge of the world, its exact location hidden
from mortal sight. Even if he could find it, the place was guarded by an immortal dragon with a
hundred heads that never slept. That was not the greatest danger. The apples themselves belonged
to Hera, sacred, and never meant to pass into mortal hands. Any attempt to take them would call
down her full and cataclysmic wrath.

Great goddess Hera, who resented his existence from before he was born. Who sent serpents to
strangle him in his crib. Who made each labor he undertook tenfold more dangerous by her
interference.

Herakles knew her power better than any man alive.
✧✧✧

Even on his last journey, no sooner than he managed to settle the cattle, terrified by the constant
movement of the deck, when a sudden gale struck the sails with force. Without any warning the
clear skies darkened, and thick drops of rain angrily pelted the deck. A wild northeaster tore at the
sail, and hurled spray at the faces of the crew struggling at the oars. Phoenician sailors whispered
prayers to their sea-god, Yamm, while anchors dragged uselessly. No sea vessel was a match for such
a forceful display of nature. The ship drifted helplessly towards the dark headland opposite Iberia,
which the sailors called the Rock at the End of Earth. Cape Spartel, though no Greek nor
Phoenician, yet knew the name.

And then the sea rose. Vast shapes, sleek and monstrous, surfaced all around them. Their spouts
shot mist into the storm, their backs glistened like polished bronze in the lightning. The sailors cried
that the hounds of Oceanos came to devour them. Herakles only stared, struck dumb by their
immensity, strength born of the ocean’s depth itself.

They beached the ship in desperation, precious cattle driven in a panic up the rocks and into the
hollow caves of the cape. They scattered across the foreign countryside. For days the storm raged
outside while men huddled in darkness, mending sails and whispering prayers.

Herakles withdrew to a recess of stone, alone with his thoughts, listening only to the thunder of
waves pounding at the cavern mouth. Sailors gave him wide berth. Even his nephew, Iolaus, faithful
and ever at his side, kept his distance then. Something in his cousin’s silence made the young man
uneasy.

Herakles had exhausted anger years ago. Hera’s hand reached into every season of his life, as
constant as the winter rains. To resent the inevitable was to squander strength better spent enduring
it.

Yet it was there, in the caves, that he felt the first lightness creep into his chest, as if some
invisible weight had lifted for the first time in years. Throughout his life, Hera made certain that he
was used to adversities. What was one more? The work was almost done. The burden already
thinner. He allowed himself to believe …

The journey back to Mycenae took longer than Herakles liked. The cattle needed constant care:
tethered on deck, herded ashore whenever land was near enough for grazing. Every stop meant
hauling water in jars, cutting grass, or buying fodder from coastal farmers. The Phoenicians kept to
familiar harbors where their traders were known, but even so, the work was slow, and tempers often
short. Still, the winds held steady, filling the patched sails, and carrying them safely along the coast of
Italia, past the islands, and finally across the Aegean.

Days lengthened into weeks, but now that they were in familiar waters, the sailors regained their
confidence and good spirits. The cattle seemed calmer, accustomed now to the roll of the deck.
Herakles remained watchful, but once he saw the shores of the Peloponnese off the portside, he
allowed himself a measure of hope. Steadily and with purpose, the ship was carrying him towards the
end of his labors.

They sighted the limestone ridges of Tiryns early in the morning, glowing with the pale gold of
the rising sun. The crew rushed to the oars and brought the ship into the harbor with practiced ease,
almost gracefully. Herakles and Iolaus set about herding the travel-weary cattle onto the gangplanks:
two restless, large-horned bulls, seven cows, and three wobbly-legged calves.
It was late spring. The rainy season had left the Peloponnese green and full of life: verdant, thick
grasses along the roadside, and wildflowers in vibrant yellow, purple, and crimson scattering the
slopes.

With a few stops for grazing, so that the herd could recover its strength, the walk to Mycenae
took over half a day. Every so often they would pass travelers going the opposite direction: an ox-
drawn cart filled to the brim with Mycenaean pottery, likely heading for the port. A band of men,
somber and worn down, carrying tools of their trade. Tiryns was expanding and it was known as a
place where work could be found easily and aplenty. So were the houses of earthly delights, which
were likely a destination for the group of young and boisterous horse riders, laughing and talking

excitedly as they passed by. They all stole sidelong glances at the magnificent animals, but none
approached their minders. Admiration could not quite overcome the unease that followed Herakles
wherever he went. Men spoke freely of miasma, until it touched someone they knew. Then they
crossed the road, lowered their eyes, and found reasons to be elsewhere. Eurystheus encouraged the
habit. His displeasure was known to linger on those who offered Herakles even the smallest
kindness. It was safer not to see. Safer not to know him.

They reached the Lion Gate of Mycenae well past midday. The crowds had already gathered,
lining the narrow streets leading to the Eurystheus’ palace. So here it was, the moment of which he
dreamed.

And with barely a few words his hopes turned into cinders.

All eyes were on Herakles. The king awaited his reply.

For a fleeting moment he searched for the purpose in it. Some necessity he had failed to see.

Some justice still hidden from him.

He found nothing.

Without breaking the stare, he inclined his head in assent.

Then he turned around and left without a word. Crowds moved like a wave, parting for him
hastily and silently closing in his wake.

Chapter Two

Athena

In retrospect, much of it was my fault. I don’t place much value on family ties, yet I’ve always felt a certain kinship with Herakles.

Perhaps it is just guilt.

I sit at a small café by the caves under the Rock at the End of Earth, a phrase that once stirred
imagination and fear. The world is much smaller now. These days they are called Grottes d’Hercule.

The Caves of Hercules.

He hates the name. Loves the place. You could call him a reluctant celebrity. Since the last labor,
Herakles has done everything possible to move unnoticed, which is impressive for someone built
like a walking landmark. Fame brought him nothing but pain. He learned that early.

The embellishing did not start with the Romans, nor did it end with them, but it helps to assign
blame, doesn’t it. Herakles refuses the Roman version of his name. Hercules. To a Greek ear it
sounds grotesque. Not as grotesque as what they did to mine. Minerva. A name more suited for a
calming tincture sold in brown glass bottles than a goddess of wisdom. Do not ever call me that.

It is a sunny April morning, with just enough chill to discourage the tour buses. The visibility is
exceptional. I can see across the strait almost all the way to Erytheia, from where, centuries ago
Herakles hauled Geryon’s cattle. It is called Cadiz, now. Renaming is one of humanity’s favorite
coping mechanisms.

I refill my glass with mint tea from a pot, pouring with a flourish from high above the rim. Thick
foam blooms on the surface. I have perfected this over time. Herakles and I have been meeting here
for centuries, long before anyone thought to install wicker chairs or laminated menus.

I always arrive first. I like to assess the perimeter, check potential cover and concealment points.
Not because I expect danger. Habit is not the same as fear. Once a soldier, always a soldier. I know
every entry and exit route, including the one through the kitchen. I take my usual seat in the corner
of the patio, back to the wall, clean sightline to the entrance. The sea stretches out before me,

crossed by ferries to Algeciras and Tarifa, sailboats, fishing vessels, oil tankers. Behind me, white
walls of the sprawling city of Tangier reflect brilliant spring sun.

Herakles appears in the doorway at last, his tall silhouette blotting out the light for a moment.
Immortality agrees with him. He has chosen a form not unlike the statue of him nearby, the one
poised above a small waterfall. Long-limbed, spare, nothing like the bloated caricatures people
prefer. He spots me before I raise my hand and threads his way through the tables.

I pour him a glass of mint tea as he lowers himself onto a chair that was not engineered for
heroes. His hair and beard are streaked with silver. A choice. We do not show age unless we wish to.
Herakles has been growing into himself. Not aging. Maturing. I find that pleasing.

My own appearance is much the same as ever, except that my hair is fully silver now.

That, too, was intentional.

It may not be obvious to a casual observer, but Herakles and I are siblings. Half-siblings.

Same father. Zeus. We are both still paying for his appetites.

When we meet, we talk about many things. Politics, tactics, the state of the world. Inevitably, we
also process Zeus. Trauma is a modern word, but it fits.

This is how it went for Herakles. Poets and storytellers rarely note it, but Herakles strongly
resembled his mother, Alkmene. She was tall, statuesque, and accustomed to drawing every eye, not
only for her beauty but for the temper that sharpened it. It is hardly surprising she attracted the
attention of the king of lustful gods. Yet what the Mycenaean princess was most known for were her
principles, a fidelity that even Zeus could not breach by ordinary means. She was loyal to her
husband, Amphitryon. That ought to have settled the matter. It did not.

The greater the stake, the sweeter the prize. Zeus has never been deterred by scruple. While
Amphitryon was away at war, he took the husband’s form. Alkmene would have had no reason to
question him, had the real Amphitryon not returned almost at once.

The bed was still warm. The deception revealed itself by bad timing alone.

That is Zeus in summary. Generous with his genes. Indifferent to context. Marriage, consent,
force, deceit, it all blurred together under the banner of entitlement. He believed, sincerely, that the
more of himself he scattered across the world, the better it would be. It was wrong then. It remains
wrong now. The rest of us stood by and called it divine prerogative. Unpleasant, perhaps. Unseemly.

But not dangerous.

We were mistaken.

Enter Hera. Wife of Zeus. Queen of the gods. Guardian of marriage, lineage, legitimacy, and
order. Her anger had nowhere to go. To confront Zeus directly would have destabilized the very
structure she was born to uphold. So, her rage condensed, became deliberate, methodical. She dared
not punish the causes, so she took out her wrath on the consequences.
Like Herakles.

Or Alcides, as he was first called.

Zeus, pleased with his conquest, had grand plans for his son. In deference to Hera, he could not
be transparent about it, so he announced that the next descendant of Perseus would inherit the
highest throne of Greece, Mycenae. Alcides qualified through Alkmene. What Zeus failed to account
for was another pregnancy already underway. The wife of Sthenelaus, Perseus’ son, was with child.

Hera moved first.
She attempted to prevent Alcides’ birth entirely. She sent Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, to sit
outside Alkmene’s chamber, binding her womb mid-labor. Days passed. It was an elegant solution:
kill mother and child, or at the very least disqualify the infant from Zeus’ proclamation.

It almost worked.

Sthenelaus’ son, Eurystheus, was born prematurely, claiming the throne of Mycenae. He would
grow up brittle in body and spirit, always lacking something essential. He ruled in the shadow of a
cousin who should never have existed.

Alkmene survived. So did her son.

This is how: her handmaiden, Galanthis, saw through Hera’s ruse. In a moment of pure genius,
she ran out of the chamber and announced that Alkmene had already delivered a healthy child.

Terrified of failing Hera, Eileithyia leapt up in shock, breaking the spell. Alcides was born, strong,
flawless. A few minutes later his weaker twin, Iphicles, followed.

Hera responded as she often did. She sent two venomous snakes to the crib.

Alcides strangled them without effort.

He had lost a throne. He had inherited his father’s strength. This might have been the end of it.

A warning delivered. Balance restored.

It was not.

This is where I miscalculated.

Exhausted by Hera’s hostility, and what you would now call postpartum depression, Alkmene
left the infant in the fields. I am not a mother. I will not judge her. But I found him there. My half-
brother. Small, red-faced, furious at the world.

On impulse, I picked him up. I had never held a newborn before. For the first time in my life, I
took in a lungful of the new baby scent. Something deep inside me softened. He squirmed against
my armor, then looked directly at me and smiled. I was unprepared for that. For his unconditional
trust that I would do the right thing.

He put his thumb in his mouth and sucked with determination. Hunger. Obvious even to me.
Bound to virginity, I had no idea what to do with a baby. The irony did not escape me. I brought
him to the one goddess who would know.

Hera took pity. She nursed him.

What happened next is disputed. Perhaps she recognized him. Perhaps his strength startled her.

She pushed him away. Milk sprayed into the air. The story says it became the Milky Way. We know
better now. Still, it is a good image. I will allow it.

I had already done enough damage.

✧✧✧

I lift the teapot and pour from higher than necessary. Foam rises, pale and uneven. I stop before
it spills.

✧✧✧

I took the child and fled before Hera could decide what to do next. After that, she and I spoke
rarely. She could not harm Zeus’ favored daughter, so she focused her attention where it would hurt.

On Alcides.

When I returned the baby to Alkmene, she renamed him, hoping for protection through

appeasement.

Herakles.

Glory of Hera.

As if.

To her credit, she waited until he grew up. Once Herakles came of age, the calamities began, one
after another, deliberate and unrelenting.

In a fit of divinely amplified rage, he mortally wounded his teacher. His stepfather was killed. He
lost his claim to the throne of Thebes.

Then came the worst of it. A calamity so extreme it resists narration.

It is not my story to tell.

I will only say this. A lesser man would not have survived. Herakles nearly did not, until his
distant cousin Theseus found him and talked him back from the edge.

✧✧✧

I watch my brother through the steam rising from the tea. It is our deepest wounds that shape
us. He bears many scars, as many within as without. Yet this one never closed. He would not permit
it.

✧✧✧

Ancient custom demands purification for what cannot be undone. A punishment, yes, but also a
way to restore balance. We all understood that such strength required extraordinary measures. The
Oracle of Delphi instructed Herakles to pledge himself to ten labors. Severe for anyone, more so for
a prince, and more still for one of divine blood. Yet it was nothing compared with what came next:

they were to be performed under the authority of Eurystheus. Humiliating. Perverse. I have little
doubt whose design that was.

It did not end there.

Who sent the deadly crab that nearly cost him victory against the Lernaean Hydra? Who spread
rumors among the Amazons, turning a diplomatic encounter into a battle that almost killed him?

Who summoned the storm that battered him on the voyage to deliver the cattle of Geryon? Who
sent a pod of sperm whales that nearly sunk his ship? Who diverted the poisoned arrow that struck
Chiron? Who seeded discord at a wedding feast, forcing Herakles to face the greatest fighter in
Africa?

You already know the answer.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

 

 

Excerpt from The Lasr Labour published by Distant Lighthouse Press,. Copyright © 2026 Anna Lamnari.

Order a copy of the book here.