‘King Laomedon, what ails you?’

‘Nothing, my lord, nothing at all.’

Herakles smiled that peculiarly sweet smile. ‘Great King, I know the look that worry wears. Tell me!’

And out tumbled the story, though of course Father put himself in a better light than the actual facts dictated: he was plagued by a lion belonging to Poseidon, the priests had ordered the sacrifice of six maidens each spring and autumn, and the choice of this autumn’s victims included his most beloved child, Hesione.

Herakles looked thoughtful. ‘What was it the priests said? No Trojan hand can be raised to oppose the beast?’

The King’s eyes gleamed. ‘Specifically Trojan, my lord.’

‘Then your priests cannot object if a Greek hand is raised against the beast, can they?’

‘A logical conclusion, Herakles.’

Herakles glanced at Theseus. ‘I have killed many lions,’ he said, ‘including the one of Nemea whose pelt I wear.’

My father burst into tears. ‘Oh, Herakles, rid us of this curse! If you did, we would be very much in your debt. I speak not only for myself, but for my people. They have suffered the loss of thirty-six daughters.’

Pleasurable anticipation crawling through me, I waited; Herakles was no fool, he would not offer to dispose of a God-sent lion without some compensation for himself.

‘King Laomedon,’ the Greek said loudly enough for heads to turn, ‘I will strike a bargain with you. I will kill your lion in return for a pair of your horses, one stallion and one mare.’

What could my father do? Neatly forced into a corner by the public nature of this overture, he had no choice other than to agree to the price, or have word of his heartless selfishness spread throughout his Court – his relatives close and remote. So he nodded in a fair imitation of joy. ‘If you succeed in killing the lion, Herakles, I will give you what you ask.’

‘So be it.’ Herakles sat very still, eyes wide and unseeing; nor did they blink, or notice what went on. Then he sighed, recollected himself, looked not at the King but at Theseus. ‘We will go tomorrow, Theseus. My father says the lion will come at noon.’

Even the other Greeks at table with him appeared awed.

Delicate wrists loaded down with golden chains, ankles ringed with golden fetters, dressed in the finest robes and with their hair freshly curled and their eyes painted, the six girls waited for the priests to come in the courtyard fronting the temple of Poseidon Maker of Walls. Hesione my half-sister was among them, calm and resigned, though the little twitch at one corner of her tender mouth betrayed her inner fear. The air was filled with the wailing and keening of parents and relatives, the clink of heavy manacles, the quick breathing of six young and terrified girls. I stayed only to kiss Hesione, then left; she knew nothing of the attempt Herakles was going to make to save her.

Perhaps the reason I did not tell her was because even then I suspected we would not rid ourselves of the curse so easily – that if Herakles did kill the lion, Poseidon Lord of the Seas might replace him with something much worse. Then my misgivings evaporated in the rush of getting from the shrine to the small door at the back of the Citadel where Herakles had assembled his party. He had chosen two helpers only for the hunt: the hoary warrior Theseus and the shaveling Telamon. At the last moment he lingered to have speech with another of his band, the Lapith King Pirithoos; I overheard him telling Pirithoos to take everyone to the Skaian Gate at noon and wait there. He was in a hurry to leave, then, which I understood; the Greeks were going to the lands of the Amazons to steal the girdle of their queen, Hippolyta, before winter.

After that extraordinary trance in the Great Hall the evening before, no one questioned Herakles’s conviction that the lion would come today – though if he did come today, it would be by far his earliest passage south yet. Herakles knew. He was the son of the Lord of All, Zeus.

I had four full brothers, all younger than me: Tithonos, Klytios, Lampos and Hiketaon. We accompanied Herakles in our father’s escort, and arrived at the appointed spot on the horse farm before the priests appeared with the girls. Herakles paced back and forth for a good distance in each direction, spying out the land; then he returned to us and set up his attacking position, with Telamon on the long bow and Theseus carrying a spear. His own weapon was an enormous club.

While we climbed to the top of a hillock out of wind and eye range, our father remained on the track to await the priests, for this was the first day of the sacrifice. Sometimes the poor young creatures had been obliged to wait many days in their golden chains, with only the ground to sleep on and a few very frightened junior priests to bring them food.

The sun was well up when the procession from the shrine of Poseidon Maker of Walls came into view, the priests shoving the weeping girls ahead of them, chanting the ritual and beating tiny drums with muted sticks. They hammered the chains to staples in the ground under the shade of an elm, and left with as much haste as dignity permitted. My father came scampering up the hillock to our hiding place, and we settled in the long grass.

For a while I watched lazily, not expecting anything to happen until noon. Suddenly the youth Telamon broke cover and ran swiftly to where the girls were crouched, straining at their fetters. I heard my father mutter something about Greek gall as the lad put his arms about my half-sister’s shoulders and cradled her head on his bare brown chest. She was a beautiful child, Hesione, enough so to attract the attention of most men, but what folly to venture to her side when the lion might appear at any moment! I wondered if Telamon had acted with Herakles’s permission.

Hesione’s hands plucked despairingly at his arms; he bent his head to whisper something to her, then kissed her long and passionately, as no man had been allowed to kiss her in all her short life. Then he wiped her tears away with the flat of his hand and ran, unconcerned, back to where Herakles had stationed him. A shout of laughter floated up to us from the three Greeks; I shook with rage. The sacrifice was sacred! Yet they dared to laugh. But when I looked Hesione had lost all her fear, stood proud and tall, eyes shining, even at that distance.

Until late morning Greek hilarity continued, then in an instant they quietened. All we could hear was the restless Trojan wind, forever blowing.

A hand touched my shoulder. Thinking it was the lion, I swung round, my heart racing. But it was Tissanes, a palace servant who worked for me. He leaned over to put his lips to my ear.

‘The Princess Hekabe is asking for you sire. Her time is upon her, and the midwives say her life hangs by a thread.’

Why did women always have to choose the wrong time? I signed to Tissanes to sit down and be very quiet, and turned back to watch the path where it dipped down into a hollow from the summit of a small rise in the ground. The birds had ceased to sing and call to each other, the wind fell. I shivered.

The lion breasted the rise and padded down the track. He was the biggest beast I had ever seen, with a light fawn coat and a heavy black mane, his tail tipped with a black brush. On his right flank he bore Poseidon’s mark, a three-pronged fish spear. Halfway down and approaching the spot where Herakles lay he stopped in midstep, one paw off the ground, his huge head lifted high, tail lashing and nostrils flaring. Then he saw his victims frozen in terror; the prospect of his enjoyment decided him. Tucking his tail down and gathering in his muscles, he trotted forward with increasing speed. One of the girls screamed, thin and screechy. My sister snarled something to her and she subsided.