Written by For years, the people of Nemea had lamented their plight. Their cattle could not graze in the meadows near the forest, travelers dared not pass through the woods, and even in their homes, none could sleep in peace. A monstrous lion dwelled in the heart of the Nemean Forest, and each day brought fresh terror—a missing sheep from the flock, a vanished child, or a wayfarer lost without trace.
No warrior, however brave, had ever emerged alive from that accursed wood. Swords and spears proved useless against the beast’s hide—arrows glanced off its golden pelt, and blades could not pierce its flesh.
“Woe unto us!” cried the peasants of Nemea. “Soon our land will be laid waste.”
It was Hera, patroness of King Eurystheus, who instructed him to command Heracles to slay the lion.
Upon arriving in Nemea, Heracles questioned the villagers about the lion’s den—its distance, its path. Yet none would guide him.
“The lion will find you soon enough once you enter the forest,” they warned, gazing pityingly at the young hero. None believed he could best the terror that had claimed so many.
Alone, Heracles ventured into the woods. Ancient trees loomed overhead, their branches whispering as if in warning; thorns clutched at his cloak to hinder him; birds shrieked ominous cries. Yet onward he pressed, tracking the beast’s spoor.
Before long, a thunderous roar shook the forest. The lion had caught his scent. With a earth-trembling growl, the creature emerged—a golden-maned terror, lashing its tail, eyes blazing with fury. Unshaken, Heracles drew his bow and loosed an arrow straight at its eye. The lion merely shook its head, batting the shaft aside like a straw. Then, coiling like a cat, it sprang.
Heracles dodged and struck with his club—a blow that would have shattered stone. Yet the weapon bounced harmlessly from the beast’s skull. The lion yawned, almost disdainfully, then turned and vanished into the thicket.
Heracles pursued.
Deep in the forest, he found the cavern’s maw. Casting aside his futile weapons, he stepped into the darkness. Suddenly—impact! The lion was upon him, claws raking. But Heracles seized its throat in an iron grip. Muscles straining, he choked the life from the monster, though its dying throes nearly crushed him.
The carcass was too massive to carry. Instead, Heracles skinned the lion, its impervious hide still clinging to the severed head. Donning the pelt as a cloak, he marched to Mycenae.
At the sight of him—the lion’s gaping maw draped across his shoulders—screams filled the streets. King Eurystheus himself cowered in the palace’s deepest vault.
“I bring the pelt of the Nemean Lion,” Heracles proclaimed.
But the craven king dared not look upon even the dead beast.
“Let Heracles keep it as his prize,” Eurystheus commanded, trembling.
“My thanks,” said the hero. The pelt became his armor—no blade could pierce it, no arrow find its mark. Clad in the lion’s hide, Heracles set forth to face his next labor.