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Do you know my name?
Of course you don't.
But I imagine you know the name of a certain hero. A mighty warrior who conquered monsters, saved kingdoms, and eventually rose to sit among the gods themselves. I am sure one name sprang immediately to mind.
Heracles.
The great champion. The lion-slayer. The man who completed twelve impossible labours and righted the wrongs of the world.
People are remarkably eager to believe a good story.
You know his name. You know his victories. You know the monsters he killed. But you do not know mine.
You do not know the woman whose entire existence became trapped within the shadow of his legend. I cannot be spoken of without speaking of him, yet his story survives perfectly well without me.
My name is Megara, since none of you seem inclined to remember it. I was his wife. I bore him three sons. And he murdered them.
Strange how that part rarely makes it into the songs.
It spoils the image, doesn't it? The shining hero who travelled the world performing noble deeds. The brave man who undertook twelve great quests. People forget that he only undertook those quests because he slaughtered his family.
He. Killed. Them.
Tell me, does he still sound like a hero?
I was sixteen when we met. Sixteen years old and a princess of Thebes. My father was Creon, King of Thebes and unfortunately for me, my father had always wanted a son. I spent my childhood being measured against an absence. Every achievement was accompanied by the unspoken disappointment that I was not someone else. Not a prince. Not an heir.
So, when a man claiming to be the son of Zeus appeared at our gates seeking my hand in marriage, my father was delighted. At last, he thought, he had found his successor.
Whether I liked Heracles barely entered the discussion. Why would it? The son of Zeus had arrived broad-shouldered, famous, and powerful. My opinions could not compete with that.
For the first time in my life, I became useful. Not because I was his daughter. Not because he loved me. Because I could provide him with grandsons.
I ceased being a daughter and became a bargaining chip. Property. An asset to be transferred from one powerful man to another. And unfortunately for me, that man was Heracles.
He was not the worst husband in Greece. That is perhaps the kindest thing I can say about him. Neither was he a good one. He had moments. Everyone does.
Occasionally I would catch glimpses of the man he might have become if the world had not spent his entire life praising every violent impulse he possessed.
As a father, he was tolerable in the beginning. He laughed at first words. Celebrated first steps. But even then, there was something unsettling beneath the surface. Nothing was ever done gently. Every lesson was a test. Every mistake was a failure. Every weakness was something to be corrected.
Still, my sons adored him. I think that is what makes his betrayal unbearable. It would almost be easier if they had feared him. At least then they would have understood the danger.
As a royal, he was hopeless. Court bored him. Diplomacy irritated him. Administration sent him searching for the nearest tavern. Whenever matters of state required his attention, he disappeared to drink.
His table manners were equally appalling. He chewed loudly. Drank excessively. Spilled wine down his tunic with such regularity that servants kept spare cloths nearby.
Despite receiving the finest education available, almost none of it seemed to have remained in his head.
At the time, I blamed his upbringing.
For years he had lived as a herdsman in the mountains, exiled there after some incident he rarely discussed.
Only after my death did I learn the truth. He had killed someone. He was barely fifteen. His father had hired the finest music teacher available for his sons. Linus. The brother of Orpheus himself.
You know Orpheus, surely. The greatest musician who ever lived. The man whose songs could move stones and soften the hearts of kings. Linus was entrusted with teaching Heracles.
I spent years married to that man, so I can confidently tell you one thing. Patience was never among his virtues. Music never stood a chance.
One day Linus criticised him. Perhaps he corrected a mistake. Perhaps he asked him to practise. Whatever the reason, Heracles lost his temper. He seized his lyre and smashed it over the man's head.
Once.
That was enough.
Linus died where he stood. That should have been warning enough for everyone. But his violence was overlooked.
His time in the palace proved troublesome for both me and my parents. Not long after he moved in, I suspect my father began regretting the arrangement. Heracles was, for the most part, little more than a useless sack of muscle. He contributed nothing to court, nothing to governance, and very little to anyone's happiness.
Still, he possessed one quality my father valued above all others.
The ability to provide heirs.
Together we had three sons. And they were nothing like him. They inherited my mother's disposition instead: gentle, thoughtful, and endlessly curious.
He hated it.
Little Deicoon used to curl up in my lap while servants read stories to us. He would rest his head against my chest and listen with wide, fascinated eyes, and for a little while I could almost forget about the galumphing oaf roaming the halls of my palace.
My older sons had not been so fortunate.
The moment they no longer required a nurse; they were taken away from me so they would not be corrupted by my womanly influence.
It was as though these men regarded femininity as an infectious disease.
Theimachus and Creontides no longer slept in my chambers. No longer ran to me with open arms whenever they scraped a knee or wanted comfort.
They still loved me. I never doubted that. But I had lost that special closeness that exists only between a mother and her children.
Instead, they spent their days in the training yard at Heracles' insistence. I know they hated it. They would complain endlessly about the heat, the bruises, and the long hours spent swinging wooden swords they had no interest in mastering. Despite this they never lost their youthful jubilance.
My children were the light of my life.
I would endure my entire marriage to that man a thousand times over just to see their faces illuminated by the morning sun one more time.
No matter how poor a husband he was, no matter how often he embarrassed me, ignored me, or treated me as though I were little more than furniture, I believed there was one thing he could never take from me.
My children.
I was wrong.
It was Theimachus' tenth birthday. He was beside himself with excitement.
From the moment dawn broke, he charged through the palace corridors, waking servants and guards alike with his enthusiastic shouting. The delight radiating from him was infectious. Little Deicoon, only three years old, toddled after his older brother, giggling helplessly at his antics.
We spent the morning together, eating figs—Theimachus' favourite—and afterwards travelled into the autumn woods to visit the river he loved so dearly. We remained there for hours.
The air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of wet leaves and earth. Sunlight streamed through the trees in golden shafts that danced upon the water. Theimachus loudly declared that he intended to catch a fish larger than any his father had ever caught. Even Heracles seemed at ease.
Watching the four of them together, I remember thinking that perhaps I had judged him too harshly. Perhaps he truly loved our sons.
I hate that memory now. I hate that he gave me a moment of happiness before destroying it forever.
It began at dinner.
The rest of the day had passed without incident. Now we sat around the table with my parents while Theimachus enthusiastically recounted his plans for future adventures. Heracles had ordered an extraordinary amount of wine to celebrate.
Undiluted wine.
The jugs sat crowded across the table. One by one, we watched him empty them.
Then another.
And another.
Drunkenness at dinner was hardly unusual for him, but he generally possessed the decency to wait until the meal had ended before rendering himself incapable of coherent thought.
My parents and I exchanged uneasy glances. My father discreetly motioned to a servant, instructing him not to bring any more wine. Sensing the same danger, I quickly suggested that the children should retire for the evening.
Heracles laughed.
He declared that his sons should celebrate rather than run off to bed like cowardly women.
Even now, centuries later, the memory makes my stomach turn.
He ordered the servant to fetch more wine. The poor man looked as though he might collapse from fear. He hesitated, avoiding eye contact. That hesitation was enough.
Heracles rose from his chair so abruptly that dishes crashed onto the floor. He demanded to know what was taking so long. Terrified, the servant hurried away and returned moments later carrying more wine.
For years I blamed him.
If he had refused, perhaps—
No.
It would have made no difference. If anything, it would only have provoked Heracles further. The servant was not responsible.
No ordinary man could withstand Heracles when he was angry. A single glare from him was enough to make grown men tremble.
No.
If anyone could have stopped what happened, it should have been me. I should have insisted. I should have taken the boys and left. I should have recognised the warning signs.
People claim it was fate.
The gods.
Destiny.
They insist that what followed could never have been prevented.
Yet I cannot stop wondering whether things might have been different if I had acted sooner. If I had seen what was coming. If I had stopped him.
They say Hera drove him mad. That she clouded his mind so completely that he could no longer recognise his own family.
People who believe that are fools.
I knew my husband. I knew the ugly creature he became when drunk.
Violent.
Self-centred.
Thoughtless.
Cruel.
People cling to the story of divine madness because it allows them to forgive him. It transforms his crimes into something that happened to him rather than something he chose to do. It preserves the image of the perfect hero. The brave champion. The monster-slayer. The man who saves the day.
The gods did not put violence inside Heracles. It was already there.
Waiting.
I cannot remember whether it was something Theimachus or Creontides said that finally set him off.
Perhaps it was a joke.
Perhaps it was nothing at all.
One moment I was laughing with my mother. The next, Heracles was standing over us with his hand raised.
He struck my father first.
He was closest.
The blow happened so quickly that I barely saw it. One instant my father was seated at the table, the next he was flying across the room.
The crack echoed through the hall. His head struck the wall with a sickening force. Then he slid to the floor, leaving a smear of red behind him.
Someone screamed.
The sound shattered the paralysis that had gripped us. I moved immediately.
Grabbing hold of my sons, I dragged them from their seats and backed away as carefully as I could, never taking my eyes off Heracles.
One does not turn their back on a charging bull.
My mother collapsed beside my father, sobbing. She loved him dearly.
The sound of her grief seemed to enrage Heracles further. With a roar, he seized one of the wine jugs from the table and brought it crashing down upon her head.
I turned away. I covered Deicoon's eyes. I could not bear to watch her final moments.
Behind me, Creontides let out a frightened little whimper.
A tiny sound.
A child's sound.
It sealed his fate.
Heracles' head snapped around. The look in his eyes reminded me of a hunting dog catching sight of prey. He lunged forward.
Before I could react, he seized Creontides by the shoulder and hurled him across the room. My son struck the wall.
I will never forget the sound.
Not the impact.
The sounds he made afterwards.
The small, broken noises.
The desperate attempts to breathe.
The confusion.
The pain.
He called out to me.
I know he did.
I could see his lips moving.
But Heracles was roaring, and the noise swallowed everything else. Even now, I do not know what my son said in his final moments. Heracles took that from me too.
Still unsatisfied, he turned on Theimachus. My beautiful boy. The child who had spent the entire day laughing. The child whose birthday we had been celebrating only moments earlier.
Heracles grabbed him by the throat.
Theimachus struggled.
Kicked.
Clawed.
For a moment, I thought he might break free.
Then I heard it.
A crack.
The sound of something vital breaking.
The laughter that had filled the palace that morning was gone.
Only wet, choking gurgles escaped him now. Blood stained his lips. And then there was silence.
I clutched Deicoon against my chest. I held him the way a drowning sailor clings to driftwood. He was all I had left.
I held him tighter as Heracles advanced towards us. Each footstep seemed to shake the floor beneath me.
Deicoon was crying. Tiny, frightened sobs. Yet even then he did not understand.
How could he? He was only three. He stretched out his little hands towards his father. Called for him. Trusted him. Loved him.
Before I could stop him, he wriggled free from my grasp and stumbled towards the blood-soaked man standing before us.
I reached for him.
Too late.
I could not stop him.
I could not stop Heracles raising his hand.
I could not stop him taking my last child from me.
Heracles through him into the hearth and Deicoon disappeared into the roaring fire.
His screams were the last thing I heard before Heracles ended my life as well.
You may be wondering how I can tell this story if I am dead.
In my world, the dead do not simply vanish. Our souls descend to Hades. We cross the dark waters of the river Lethe and enter the Underworld as shades. There was little comfort waiting for me there.
I found my sons. But they were only echoes of what they should have become. Nothing changes in the Underworld. Nothing grows. Nothing ages.
Theimachus would never see an eleventh birthday. Deicoon would remain three years old forever. The futures stolen from them could never be returned.
For a time, we found what peace we could. At least we no longer lived beneath the shadow of their father. Then the stories began.
Stories of Heracles the Hero.
Stories of his greatness.
Stories of the Twelve Labours.
After slaughtering us, he claimed the gods had driven him mad. Suddenly his crimes became a tragedy that happened to him rather than something he had done to us. King Eurystheus ordered him to perform a series of labours as penance.
Those labours made him famous.
The world remembered every monster he killed.
No one remembered his children.
No one remembered me.
The labours carried his name across the world. Poets sang of them. Kings admired them. Children dreamed of them.
Meanwhile, my sons were forgotten. Our deaths became the foundation upon which his legend was built.
And once he achieved that fame, did he speak of us?
Did he tell people why he undertook those labours?
Did he honour our memory?
No.
He buried us.
We became an inconvenience. A shameful secret hidden beneath layers of glory. People remember the names of the beasts he slew. They do not remember the names of his sons. He made me a footnote in the story of his life.
Perhaps that is the fate of women in heroic tales. We exist only when we serve the hero's narrative. We are mothers, wives, daughters, prizes and tragedies. And when our purpose is fulfilled, we disappear.
Heracles' story survived because poets found it exciting. Mine survived only because it explained why his adventure began. Even now, people hear of the Twelve Labours and think of courage. I hear of them and think of three small graves on a lonely hill.
Our deaths became the first chapter of his redemption.
That is what angers me most.
Not the monsters.
Not the fame.
The erasure.
History transformed him into a victim while the true victims were forgotten. People know the names of the Nemean Lion. The Hydra. The boar of Erymanthus. Yet they do not know the names of my sons.
Theimachus.
Creontides.
Deicoon.
Remember them.
Please.
Heracles went on to father many more children. Eventually some of them arrived here in Hades, old and fulfilled after lives well lived. They had adventures, friendships, families and futures.
My sons had none of those things.
Everything they might have been ended in a single night.
Perhaps Heracles felt remorse.
Perhaps he did not.
I no longer care.
Remorse cannot return my children. An apology cannot restore the years they lost. It cannot erase the terror of their final moments.
What I want is simple.
I want people to remember.
I want them to stop treating Heracles as a flawless hero.
I want them to remember that before he fought monsters, he was one.
He was not merely a victim of divine cruelty.
He was a murderer.
A murderer.
And yet people raised him higher than kings.
They worshipped him despite the suffering he caused.
And I suspect that no matter how many centuries pass, that will never change.