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was away more and more. Sometimes, he would be gone for years at a time. Dianeera, left alone in Argos, would remember Nessus’s words. “If you ever feel that your husband’s love for you is fading . . .” She could hear it ringing in her ears: Nessus’s dying promise. At such moments, Dianeera would go to the cabinet where she kept the bottle filled with his blood. She would take it out, cup it in her hands, press it to her breasts. The love-charm.
    On one of his trips, Heracles was away for five long years. Dianeera could feel herself growing old. When Heracles returned at last to Argos, his hair was grey, but he seemed as strong and fit as ever. He hugged Dianeera, kissed her, smiled and laughed and joked. But Dianeera did not smile. She rested her cheek on his chest and stayed there for a long while, listening to the beating of her husband’s heart. Then she turned and left him. She went to their bedroom and looked in a mirror. She traced the lines on her face and touched the white hairs on her head. She crossed to her cabinet and removed a beautiful robe. She had bought it in the market place. It was embroidered with reds, purples and golden thread. Dianeera laid it out on the bed, returned to the cabinet and reached for the bottle filled with the love charm. She paused for a moment, standing beside the bed, then she uncorked the bottle and poured the love charm over the inside of the robe. Nessus’s blood seeped into the fabric. Dianeera folded the robe neatly and called out to her maids to draw Heracles a bath. When he stepped out of it, she dried him herself. Then, as he stood naked, she presented him with the robe, holding it open for him. He pulled it on, wrapped it tight around his body, fastened it with a belt. Then, suddenly, he screamed.
    He began tugging at the robe, trying to tear it off, but the fabric was already melting into his body. When he pulled at the robe, he was pulling at his own stomach. Bloody scraps of bubbling flesh dripped from his fingers. He stared at Dianeera with wide eyes. “What have you done?” he cried. “You have destroyed me! I am being eaten by the hydra’s blood!”
    “No,” sobbed Dianeera. “No! It is to make you love me again!”
    But Heracles was not listening. He was already running out of the house, out of the city. He was running for the mountains. Snow lay high on the peaks. All that Heracles could think of as he burned was to roll and roll in the snow.
    Dianeera watched him go, then she returned to the bedroom. She took a cord from her gown made a noose, then tied the other end to a beam. She stood on a chair, slipped the noose over her neck and kicked away the chair. As she slowly throttled herself, the tears flowed down her cheeks and dropped to the floor.
    Meanwhile, Heracles was also ready for death. He had reached the mountaintop, but the snow had done nothing to cool his body. As his flesh melted and dripped from his bones, he knew that his end had come. But he also knew that he would never truly die. He was the son of Zeus, and he was the greatest hero of all. If his mortal body were consumed by flames, then his spirit would climb to the heavens. He would live on as a god. In a frenzy, he began gathering wood. He gasped with agony as he worked, but he did not stop once for breath as he built a giant funeral fire. All around him, shepherds gathered to watch. When Heracles had finished, he climbed to the top of the mound of wood, lay down and called out to the shepherds. He ordered them to light the fire. They refused. The thought of killing Heracles was too awful to think about. Heracles roared at them to obey him, but all the shepherds disappeared down the mountainside. And still the poison bubbled and hissed and burned.
    Some time later, a boy came walking by, herding goats. Heracles raised his head feebly and called out to the boy. He begged him to light the fire.
    The boy looked up at the hero with wide eyes. He shook his head.
    “What is your