The Trials of Hercules (13 page)

The lion paces, but still keeps its distance from Herc who, without taking his eyes off the beast, is signaling for his cousin to stay back. The red-haired youth falls back a few paces.

“Zoos, that’s it,” Orpheus says. “We’ve had lions in Portaceae before, all Osteria has, hasn’t she? But they usually stick to livestock and game. This one, look at him, he’s the size of four lions put together, and he’s taken a liking to human flesh. Particularly kids.”

I’ve heard stories of a rogue lion, but thought they were just tales to scare children.

“So, why not just kill it. A thing that size can’t be hard to hit.”

Just then Herc throws a rock, aiming it at the lion’s head and hitting it dead center. The rock bounces off doing no more damage than a pebble hitting a boulder.

“Can’t be done,” Orpheus says. “Its skin can’t be pierced or cut, its claws could shave you down to your cheekbones in one swipe, and its bones are said to be unbreakable.”

“So how’s he supposed to kill it?” I look more closely at the screen. “He doesn’t even have any weapons.”

Then, like the patient hunter he is, the lion lies down facing Herc. Herc stands his ground watching the animal, never taking his eyes off of it. The camera droops now and then during the standoff. The cameraman’s shoulders will be tiring and he must be switching his machine between them. In the stands, vendors begin making their way through with drinks and packets of nuts, dried fruits, and bread. The audience eats and drinks and watches. Some get bored, while others may have chores or jobs to get to. Regardless of the reason, they trickle out as the sun moves over the arena. As soon as they leave, more people file in to take their places. All the while, Herc and the lion watch one another, waiting for some moment only they’re aware of.

“Herc, we need to do something,” Iolalus says. I’m impressed by the sound range of the camera and remind myself to look it over if the cameraman returns. “The sun’s already well past midday.”

“I’m quite aware of that. Why don’t you address your complaint to our other cousin who seems to have miscalculated how long it would take to get here? One hour, Eury? Try three,” he says over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the lion. “Now, get back.”

Iolalus takes two steps back. The lion’s tail whips back and forth. Its muscles flex under creamy white fur. I’ve seen the same motions when my daughter’s cat is preparing to strike an inattentive bird.

“Move, man, that thing’s ready to pounce,” I urge.

With a burst of energy, the lion bolts. The cameraman screeches, swinging wide to the sky, then the ground before balancing back to the scene. The lion has turned and is running. Herc chases after it. The scene jogs up and down before the cameraman centers Herc and the lion in his view. Iolalus races after his cousin trailing only a couple paces behind.

The lion darts into what appears to be a rock wall covered in vines, but the plants either cover a hidden opening in the rock face or the lion truly is magical because the animal disappears from view. Herc stands to the side of where the creature has entered and yanks the vines away allowing a clearer view of a cave. The cameraman zooms in as the lion turns around so its head faces the entrance. The beast lets out another of its gut-clenching roars.

“Herc,” Iolalus urges, “the sun is getting low.”

I look to the western edge of the arena to see the sun is now touching the arena’s wall.

“Well, I can’t push it back up, can I?” Herc replies. He’s positioned himself several paces back from the front of the cave. “Now, get behind that rock there and wait.”

Iolalus does as he is told, then asks, “Any plans you want to share? Ideas how to get out of this, perhaps?”

“My plan is to die on my own terms.”

Herc lunges to the front of the cave. The audience shrieks as the lion explodes out of the cavern, its teeth and claws shine red in the low summer sun. As the animal charges toward him, Herc crouches but keeps his arms and hands up as if ready to catch a ball. The lion lands on him, knocking him onto his back and covering him in fur and claws.

“He can’t get out of that,” Orpheus says. “There’s no way.”

I watch, torn between giving into the obvious blood bath that is about to come and maintaining my hope that my former cell mate will somehow prevail.

“No, see.” I point. Herc’s large hands slip up the lion’s dark mane. He pushes the animal up, his face contorting with strain and his body twitching with the effort of staying crouched as the lion pushes against him trying to force him back down. The lion snaps its jaw trying to get Herc’s head, but Herc ducks and tilts staying a finger’s width from death with every attempted bite. All the while, Herc’s hands clench the lion’s throat.

The creature’s movements slow, but not its wits. It grabs Herc with paws as large as a cow’s head and claws as long as a man’s finger. The lion sinks the curved weapons into his opponent’s back. Herc howls in pain, but doesn’t ease his chokehold. With a roar as impressive as the lion’s, Herc springs from his crouched position and flips the beast onto its back. The claws rip out of Herc’s back taking several large chunks of flesh with them.

Through every movement, every gash, Herc never releases his hands from the animal’s throat. The lion fights the upheaval earning Herc more slashes, but after a few weak swipes, the beast can’t raise its paws. The end is near. The lion twitches and opens its mouth as if to roar, but no sound comes out. A few moments later the beast’s head lolls to one side; its purple tongue protrudes from its mouth.

A mix of elation and sadness sweeps over me. The audience becomes a lion itself with roars of applause and cheers of “Herc! Herc! Herc!”

In the Solon’s box, I see the Solonia straddling the Solon, showering him with kisses, but he brushes her aside and storms out. The woman drags a hand along the servant’s abdomen as she follows after her husband. In the Herene’s box, the white-haired priestess jumps and cheers. Her accompanying ladies shift about awkwardly as if unsure what to do in the face of this unrestrained behavior.

“I don’t suppose you have a knife?” Herc calls to the cameraman. The camera shakes back and forth twice.

Herc drags a finger along one of the blood-coated claws. He jerks his hand back and another rivulet of blood drizzles from a slice on his finger. Using a careful, but tight grip he rips one of the claws out of the lion’s paw.

“What are you doing?” Iolalus asks.

Herc ignores him and begins slicing the skin as a hunter would to save a pelt. The claw slits the skin smoother than the sharpest Helenian blade paring a peach.

As if realizing what his cousin is doing, Iolalus insists, “We don’t have time.”

“We will if you help,” Herc says with a catch in his voice.

Herc continues making his cuts along the hind legs. Iolalus shakes his head and pulls an expression of disbelief, but yanks out a claw and sets to work on the front. Within moments the lion is bare from head to tail.

All the while, the audience cheers, “Herc! Herc! Herc!”

10

H
ERC

“What will you do with the pelt?” Iolalus asks as we ride to back to the village of Nemea.

I don’t truly know what I’ll do with it. I’d only taken the time to skin the lion to hide my face from the camera. When the beast had been upon me, I’d only thought of surviving, of killing it, of protecting the people of Portaceae. Once I witnessed the lion’s head lying limp and lifeless, all thoughts had turned to Cassie. I must have strangled her just the same—hands on throat, squeezing the breath from her. But with her I had no reason to kill, no district to protect. The idea sent every muscle in my body trembling and my jaw quavering with approaching tears.

With the damned cameraman training his machine on me I couldn’t give vent to my emotion. Removing the skin provided a distraction and gave me time to compose myself. As I ran the claw between the creature’s skin and muscle, I relished the pain in my back, the feeling of my blood dripping down. Had the lion ripped my gut open, it would not have been enough to make up for what I’ve done to my children. Throughout the chore, my hand kept drifting to touch the charm that was no longer around my neck.

“Here, take it back,” Iolalus had offered as he began lifting the leather necklace over his head.

With hands bloodied from our work, I gripped his wrist. “No, it’s yours now. Besides, a piece of metal won’t still my mind.”

“If you ever want it—”

“I won’t,” I interrupted and continued peeling the lion’s skin away from its body.

Once it was off the lion’s carcass, Iolalus and I rolled up the pelt. The horses had skittered away from the smell of the predator as I tried to shove the skin into a saddlebag, but the hide was too large to fit. Instead, I tied it to the back of my horse’s saddle like a blanket.

When we pass through the main village of the Nemea District, the people gather in the streets cheering and hailing us. We came through this way when we first arrived to get information on the location of the lion to little avail and much wasting of time. The village is indeed less than an hour’s ride from Portaceae, but the people had given conflicting stories of where the lion had last been sighted. The district’s vigiles couldn’t corroborate which tale, which location was the right one, but their ignorance didn’t stop them from giving their own opinions on the matter.

We ended up wasting two hours searching for signs of the beast. With our late start and the time it took to stalk the lion, the sun is now only a hand’s breadth away from the horizon. Although the Nemean people have casks of wine at the ready, we don’t have time to spare on festivities much to Iolalus’s disappointment.

At the edge of the village, Nemea’s governor, an elderly man with a beard down to his belly, waits in the street signaling us to stop. He’d been the only one who was right about the location of the lion. If I’d taken the governor’s advice rather than that of a distraught father whose son was the most recent victim of the beast, I would now have time to speak with the old man.

“From all of Nemea,” he says in a slow, hoarse voice. “We thank you. You have saved us.”

The crowd cheers again. I shift on the horse, my eyes unable to stop looking toward the setting sun.

“He was a noble beast. A worthy foe.” I want to ride around the governor, but people are now closing in to hear our words. The horse I’ve borrowed from the Herenes senses my urgency and paws at the ground.

“Not so noble in his tastes.” The governor gestures to the crowd. “Each one of these people lost a loved one to him.”

I scan the crowd. Tears of relief wash some of their faces, vengeful joy crosses others. And the sun continues to dip lower as if the hand of Zeus is pushing it down faster than normal.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Your fee,” the governor interrupts. He tries to hand me a large satchel of coins, but it’s too heavy for him to lift. I reach down to take it.

“Not my fee,” I say so all the people can hear. “This money is for all of Portaceae.”

“Herc,” Iolalus whispers, “we must go if we’re going to make it back by nightfall.”

“I promise you will all see some good come from this, but only if I make it back to Portaceae City before her gates close. There, your donation will go into the treasury.”

Either my words or the urgent tone behind them catches the old man’s attention. He begins shooing people aside, clearing a path for us to get the horses through. People brush our legs and touch the lion’s pelt as we pass. Once through, we set the horses to a gallop.

Iolalus is worse than an overexcited puppy as we ride back to Portaceae City. Despite our hurry to outpace the setting sun, he gives his take on my actions, which include a reenactment from horseback of what I’ve done and is followed by more questions of what I will do with the pelt.

After I don’t respond, Iolalus suggests, “We could sell it.” The landscape is still lit by the low summer sun. We can now see the crenellations of Portaceae City’s walls and allow the horses to slow their pace. “It has to be worth something. Probably more than what’s in that bag from Nemea’s governor.”

“I’ll give the skin to the House of Hera. It’ll need to be cured. Then they can sell it to pay for the cost of our lodging.”

“You should keep it as a cloak. Nothing could pierce you. You’d be invincible,” Altair, our cameraman, says.

“There’s other ways to die than being stabbed or shot with an arrow in battle,” I say in a tone that indicates I want to hold no conversation with him. My words however, bring to mind thoughts of the blood crime vault. A shiver passes over me despite the warmth of the evening.

“I don’t work for the Solon,” the cameraman says defensively.

“Then, why did you meet us this morning at his bidding?” Iolalus accuses.

“I have a family. A wife, three children, one barely a year old. Believe me, as their only provider, I have no desire to risk my life by traipsing after monstrous creatures. But the Solon threatened me. With those hulking guards of his bearing down on me, he said if I disobeyed, it would be considered treason. I figure there might be a high chance of dying by filming you two, but a one hundred percent chance of death if I don’t follow his orders. I have no love of the man, nor do I serve him willingly.” After a pause, he adds, “There are others more deserving of the Solonship,” with his eyes fixed on me. I stay silent unable to find words to make up for my rudeness toward him and unwilling to acknowledge his treasonous comment.

After several moments, Iolalus breaks the silence. “You both are much too serious.” He then recounts the day over again, this time embellishing how many times I’d been cut by the lion’s claws without flinching.

As we approach the gates, the tender is already swinging them closed.

“Hold!” I shout. “Hold!”

A man steps out from behind the wench mechanism, squinting his eyes to see us better.

“We’re on Solon’s business,” Iolalus calls out. “Hold the gate.”

We urge our horses forward and then ease them through the space between the gate and the wall. It’s just wide enough to allow us through.