The Trials of Hercules
T
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RIALS OF
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ERCULES
B
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STERIA
C
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T
AMMIE
P
AINTER
Copyright 2014 Tammie Painter
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-1310094972 (ebook)
This book is also available in print
ISBN: 978-1500168384 (print)
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ABLE OF
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ONTENTS
The Trials of Hercules
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2
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3
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4
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5
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6
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7
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8
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9
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10
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11
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12
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15,
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18,
19,
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21
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22
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25
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27
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28
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31
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32
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33
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34
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35
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36
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37
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38
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44
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Epilogue
)
The Labors of Hercules in Greek Mythology
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Hundreds of years ago, North America experienced The Disaster. In what was once the Northwest, the survivors built a new world, Osteria, which was then divided into twelve city-states.
To this world came the gods formerly worshipped by the Ancient Greeks. The gods have not changed—they are still powerful, petty, and consumed with rivalries and jealousy.
And as before, the gods do not play fairly with those they despise.
G
LOSSARY
Agora:
The central marketplace of a city.
Drachar:
The primary unit of currency used in Osteria. One hundred denaris equal one drachar.
Herene:
A woman who serves Hera. Her chastity ensures the safety of the polis. Any Herene who does not adhere to her vows faces a death sentence.
Kingdom:
A political division within Osteria. A kingdom maintains itself independent of the gods and goddesses of Olympus. Examples of kingdoms include Minoa and Amazonia.
Polis (
plural = poli
):
A political division within the land of Osteria. Ruled as a state from a powerful city, each polis has one of the Olympian gods (The Twelve) as its patron. Within the polis are smaller regions or districts ruled by governors who answer to the polis’s ruling government. There are twelve poli.
Scapegoat:
A tradition in some poli where one person accepts all the sins of the polis. He leaves the polis for a period of one year taking the polis’s sins with him. After the year, he may return.
Solon:
The title of the ruler of Portaceae. The position is inherited and given only to men. His wife is the Solonia
The Twelve:
The twelve gods of Olympus. Each god oversees the proper rule of one of Osteria’s twelve poli. They do not play a role in any of the kingdoms of Osteria.
Vigile:
Osteria’s police and fire-fighting team. The vigiles also make up the defensive forces when a polis is at war.
T
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1
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The distant howl of the siren yanks me into consciousness. The vigile’s siren. If the resonant wail is within earshot, the situation is nearby and it’s my duty to respond. As a member of the vigiles, as the force’s commander, I’m never off duty.
I jerk up from where I lay. The quick motion sends my head swimming. I drop my hands to my side to steady myself. I expect to sink into the plush give of my bed’s feather mattress. Instead, cold tile greets my hands. My head swims again trying to understand. Trying to remember.
I grasp at the fog of a memory as I stare at my hand against the kitchen floor. My still spinning head can’t comprehend the color.
The tiles are beige, aren’t they?
It was what Meg had wanted when we’d been assigned vigile housing. I hadn’t minded the standard-issue gray, but Meg insisted the sandstone tiles would lighten up the dark interior of the home the polis issued us when we married.
What frames my hand is not beige, although the pale color can be glimpsed in harsh streaks. Around my hand, even on my hand, swirls the maroon red of blood that is just starting to coagulate.
Whose blood?
The hand-cranked siren’s rhythmic wooing grows louder. From fourteen years of service as a vigile, I know whoever is working the crank already has knots forming in his shoulder.
My blood?
I pat myself down. No injuries except an ache when I flex my hands. A familiar ache like the one I get on fall days from spending hours chopping wood in preparation for winter. The ache from gripping an axe handle for too long.
The pain triggers something and an image bobs to the surface of my mind: My hands clenching, squeezing something small. Cassie’s doll? No, the memory is solid and the doll is made of cloth from one of Meg’s old dresses.
The approaching siren again pulls me back into focus. It has to be a response call to whatever has happened. My eyes dart over the room as I force aside the ever-growing scream of “Whose blood?” that threatens to devour my reason.
Then I see it.
A shape that reminds me of peeking in on Cassie while she sleeps. Few things warmed my heart more than seeing my children in their small beds with their arms tossed back in the confident lull of childhood sleep.
But on the floor. Why is she sleeping on the floor?
I watch a moment. My baby girl’s chest refuses to move with the rhythmic undulations of breathing. An icy hand digs into my gut.
Unable to stand, I scramble over on hands and knees. I clutch Cassie to me. Her head flops to the side. Her neck broken. I scream. The sound rings wildly in my ears but I can’t stop. She’s only a baby, not even a year old. She can’t be dead, not after Meg gave up her life to bring this child into the world. The gods cannot be that cruel.
Despite the ragdoll looseness of her body, I turn my head and place my ear on my daughter’s chest hoping to hear a heartbeat. I hear nothing but the siren.
Before I can curse the gods, my eyes lock on the floor.
Two swaths of maroon stripe their way from the kitchen into the pantry. Something has been dragged across the room. A set of footprints smears the wispy swaths. The person who made them wore the treaded leather-soled sandals of a vigile who needs to cover unpaved terrain.
No, no, don’t let it be. Not the twins.
Still clutching Cassie to my chest, unwilling to let her be alone, I stagger into the pantry.
Don’t let it be. Don’t let it be.
The siren wails closer.
Oh, dear gods.
Forgetting caution on the blood-slicked floor, I dash to the bodies, slip in the mess, and come down hard on my knees next to them, next to the bloodied dagger discarded by whoever did this. Sergio and Sophia, my tow-headed twins, lie face down. Blood stains their linen white hair and seeps out from slashes in the fabric of their tunics. Their position disturbs me more than the blood, more than the wounds. A head lying face down should naturally turn to the side, unable to balance on nose and chin. My twins’ faces rest flat on the floor.
I gently lower Cassie to a tattered rug, brushing a lock of silky hair off her face.
The siren’s screech is now on my street. They will catch the person who did this. And then I will see that person sent to Hades.