The Trials of Hercules (29 page)

I don’t try to go back to bed. What would be the point? I hadn’t been sleeping when I heard the crash of rock meeting glass. Instead, I stand at the window watching the guards dragging the boy off. He resists so violently, his shoulder rips out of its socket leaving his arm dangling at a grotesque angle. His screams as they shove it back into place set the horses in the stables whinnying in fright as if one of their own has been injured.

The entire event and its aftermath truly sickens me. Of course, I did enjoy watching Herc’s discomfort at the wedding, the Herene’s too. But afterwards, the celebrations had taken on ridiculous proportions with partying continuing far into the night. A person would think Portaceae had been chosen to host the Osterian Games again with the way everyone took to the streets cheering and hooting and drinking and shouting, “Herc the Hero, Herc the Hero is wed.” The sounds of the people’s cheers refuse to leave my head.

I push at the mess of glass with my foot being careful not to pierce my slippers, then bend down to pick up the rock.

The marriage isn’t even news, certainly none worth celebrating. Of course, he’s wed. He’s an adult male and therefore married like most of the rest of us. It’s not as if he made it rain gold. Oh, and that ploy from Iole by dragging up some old tribute law. It took guts, I’ll give her that. For a moment there, I’d thought Deianira might just leap up and rip the Herene’s throat out.

A servant enters with a broom and waits in the shadows pretending to be invisible but her breathing is like a wheezing scream in the silence of the foyer. I tip the rock back and forth between my hands. How easy it would be to hurl this at her and silence her irksome noise. I wonder, would the rock shatter her skull as it had the glass pane?

I step away from the window, moving toward her, clutching the rock in my right hand. Her eyes dart to me, but then, as she’s been trained to do, she looks to the ground as I come near her. Does she know she’s inches from death?

I pause a moment beside her. Her breathing stops. I linger, wondering how long she can hold her breath. How long until she can take it no longer and sucks in a deep wheezing gasp? I work the rock back and forth a few more times, then jerk it up clutched in my hand like a weapon just to watch the woman flinch. The power of her fear should thrill me, but my foul mood allows no room for any joy. I lower the rock, turn away from the servant, and climb the stairs to my bed chamber. To Adneta.

She’d been ecstatic when I revealed the golden menagerie to her little by little over my festival days. My wife was like a child as she clapped for joy at the sight of the glittering creatures, but proved to be very much a woman when she thanked me with every attention a man could want. She burned with a passionate glee over her gift.

Until she saw Iole’s dress today.

When my wife saw the Herene’s outfit, she turned as cold as the glacial ice on the Hooded Mount and insisted I get her one just like it. Not knowing how I would pay for it, I promised her a similar gown in every color, every material she could hope for. Unfortunately, even the acts Adneta performed with her pouty little mouth after I put in the order with the royal dressmaker couldn’t erase the lingering traces of the chants that still ring in my ears.

Herc is becoming ever more a favorite with the people. And that popularity is a risk to me more than ever before. But I still need him.

A feeling of being in a box I can’t climb out of consumes me. I have to cling to the railing to avoid toppling back and as I do, the rock tumbles out of my hand tolling a heavy
bang, bang, bang
as it rolls down the stairs. The servant yelps at the sound, but she quickly cuts off her cry and I hear the swish of her broom pushing the glass once more.

Do I need him? Why can’t I just insist on a task such as, “Drive this dagger through your heart?” If he does so, good, I can always find some way to be rid of Iolalus. And if he doesn’t, all the better because both my cousins will be sent under for Herc’s failure to complete the tribute service.

I push open the door to the bed chamber. My dressing room door stands open; perhaps I’d forgotten to latch it when I grabbed my robe and slippers. In the bed, Adneta sleeps looking beautiful in the moonlight. My heart aches as I touch her hair.

And here is the very reason I can’t be done with him. My wife will wake when the sunlight streams in the bed chamber and begin asking what I can give her and I will scramble to come up with a gift. Perhaps I’m a fool, or being made into a fool, but she gives me joy and I want to do the same for her. She will always want things, but only Herc has the strength, the cleverness, and the blind devotion to Portaceae to risk his life performing tasks he thinks benefit the polis. Tasks that can get me the objects to bring my Solonia pleasure

I despise him for that.

I need him and I need rid of him. I go to the window and squint my eyes to see how far I can see in the low light. The hills of the city are clear, but in the distance, only the silhouettes of the mountains can be seen.

The silhouettes send a spark of an idea through me. The further away I send him, the longer the tasks will take.

Sending him away during my celebrations has proven one thing: Unlike any normal man who would have taken his chances with the gods and run when he had his freedom from Portaceae’s borders, Herc keeps returning. I can hardly fathom such morality. Of course it may be the Herene drawing him back, but why bother with a frigid priestess when there are thousands of women all across Osteria who would gladly take my cousin into their beds? Truly unfathomable.

Absence kills remembrance, they say. The longer he is gone, the more his popularity will fade. People have short attention spans and they’ll soon find another distraction.

I leave the bed chamber and jog back down the stairs. The servant woman stops her sweeping and tucks into the nearest corner. I snatch up the rock on my way to my study. After striking a match to light a candle, I mindlessly return to tossing the rock back and forth between my hands as I scan the wall map of Osteria.

Five tasks remain. How far can I send him? How much can he obtain for me?

My eyes land on Minoa—far east of the Great Mountains, nearly as far as the Chasm of Hades. Minos, the king of Minoa who renamed his realm after himself, keeps a sacred bull that’s dear to the Minoan people, and the king is said to adore the creature.

Such a treasured animal would be a lovely sacrifice in honor of Adneta—just a little bloodletting, of course, we Portaceans aren’t barbarians like the Areans who still hack animals apart for the gods’ pleasure. Adneta could even wear one of her new gowns to the occasion. If Minos wants his darling bull back, I don’t doubt he will pay dearly for its return. Money I swear I will manage tightly this time—who would have thought two million drachars could disappear so quickly? And, if rumors of Minos’s temper are to be believed, when he discovers my cousins are the ones who stole his pet—well, I won’t complain if the king takes his revenge on them and saves me the bother of sending them under.

As the sun peeks over the horizon, I dash off a letter, grab the necessary travel passes, and order them taken to Peacock Lane.

22

H
ERC

Deianira’s shouts continue to bite into my ears as I turn off the tight alley of Peacock Lane and into the wider avenue that will take me to the House of Hera. Eury may not have any good feelings toward me, but he has done me a favor with his summons even if I don’t agree with its request.

Taking care of troublesome creatures is one matter, but stealing a sacred bull tastes as foul to me as taking Artemis’s stag had to Iole. And since the Minoans do not honor The Twelve, I doubt any of Osteria’s gods will intervene in my favor if things turn sour on this task.

At the House of Hera, the daily routines are already underway when I step through the Peacock Gate. Apples are being picked from dwarfed trees, late summer strawberries are being collected in baskets, the peacocks are being fed, and Euphemia, despite her hobble, is raking the pea gravel walkways to level them out as she fires a scowl at anyone who dares to walk back over and disturb her work. Inside I know the breakfast dishes will already be cleaned as preparations begin for lunch, and household chores will be underway. As the women greet me with knowing smiles, I realize what a home the House has become to me.

Iole steps out from the Herenes’ quarters. The morning sun moves just above the height of the front wall, making her hair gleam. She raises a hand to shield her vision from the blinding light and our eyes meet. She looks down to her feet, shifts first to the right and then to the left as if uncertain which way to go. I start toward her, but she makes her decision and dashes back into her quarters.

Regardless of the impulse to run in after her, I have no time. The train Iolalus and I have passes for leaves in less than an hour’s time. I need to gather my things, find Iolalus, change into traveling clothes, and see if the kitchens can prepare us some food for the journey. I head first to the kitchens.

The heat from the wood-fired ovens and stoves vibrates off the walls of the entire lower floor of the south wing. Adding to the heat is a chaos of activity as women clad in cream-colored shifts scuttle about with wheels of cheese, hunks of meat, and bushels of produce. The clang of metal pots and peal of raucous laughter is a jarring change from the peace outside.

At a large central table that serves as work area and chopping block, sits Iolalus with his head clutched in one hand as he picks at a large chunk of bread. He greets me with a weak smile.

“Shouldn’t you have eaten already?” I ask.

“I slept past breakfast. In fact, I wish I was still sleeping.”

“What happened to you?”

“Iole and I spent the night trying to forget your wedding.”

“You stayed the night with Iole?” My angry outburst brings a sudden silence to the bustling kitchen. The women quickly return to their stirring and chopping, but all ears stay angled in my direction.

“We were supervised the entire time,” Iolalus says so all can hear. He looks about the room as he repeats, “The entire time. By Maxinia.” He tears off a hunk of bread and guzzles several cups of water as I ask Portia, a stout woman who oversees the kitchens, if she will prepare some food to see us through the time it will take Iolalus and me to reach Minoa—a three-day journey by train. She beams a look full of pride as if she’s been asked to prepare a meal for the Solon himself and rattles off a menu of dried fruits, hard cheese, the hearty rolls I’m already familiar with, and jerkies that she’ll have ready “as quick as can be.”

I thank her and head to the north wing with Iolalus who snatches another portion of bread as we leave.

“How was the wedding night?” he asks in a hushed voice as we cross the courtyard. “All you could have hoped for?”

“I managed to avoid her last night.” I can’t tell him how close I had come to fleeing Deianira’s house during the small hours or that I tried to fill my head with thoughts of Iole to even imagine bedding my wife. “And, thanks to the gods, our cousin narrowly saved me from my marital duties this morning with another task.” I hand him the letter I still have clutched in my hand. “So finish your bread and pack your things. We’re off to Minoa.”

As Iolalus slips into his room to gather his gear, I go to mine to do the same. I set the breast plate on a high-backed chair, lay the lion cloak over the chair’s arm, and change out of the ceremonial tunic into something less fine. Out of habit, I touch my chest where the vigile charm once rested and again curse myself for the superstitious gesture when I find the talisman missing.

With our packs on our backs, swords at our waists and papers in hand, Iolalus and I start across the courtyard to the Peacock Gate. Something nags at me and I turn to look back. Iole is standing at her window watching us go. I know there’s no time to talk, but seeing her makes me want to run to her and never leave her side. Regardless of all I want to say, there is nothing I can do until I return. I turn back focusing on the gate and the street beyond.

“He didn’t bed her,” Iolalus shouts. He’s looking up at Iole, but all the women in the courtyard have heard. Some let out shy titters of laughter while others shoot us scornful glares. My face burns with embarrassment.

“Shut up, Iolalus,” I mutter. I grab my idiot cousin by the arm and drag him out of the complex.

Once past the gate and beyond the wall of the House, I release my grip on his arm. I glance over to him. A broad smile brightens his face.

“What?” I bark.

“She smiled. At the news.”

“Which is why it’s good we’re going far away.”

The train rattles and clanks eastward through the green gorge carved by the Great Col River. From the window we can see Cedonia’s wood-framed buildings and the Hooded Mount’s patchwork of snow left over from last winter. Over the night, the train diverts south into the high desert of Bendria, and the next day it heads east again into a smaller group of hills surrounded by plains of long grass.

At stops we can stretch our legs, but since our travel passes are only for Minoa, we aren’t allowed to leave the stations’ platforms. After another night of travel we enter a land that is a stark contrast to Portaceae. At home, the regular and persistent rainfall makes everything green, but the land around Minoa is striped with reds and yellows and browns in variations that I’ve never imagined.

The Minoa station sits just outside the city’s walls. Stepping onto the platform I’m greeted by a blast of hot air that actually seems refreshing after the stuffy confines of the train. At the station’s exit a burly man checks our passes with heavy scrutiny and several suspicious glances from the paper to us before allowing us to pass through the gate.

Inside the walls is a city to rival any of the poli’s capital cities. I was impressed by Cedonia, but I’m floored by the perfect lines of Minoa. Although the walls are ancient and made of rough-hewn rock, the gleaming, smooth building edifices are constructed of metal, stone, and sections of glass that carry only a light tint of the red dust blown in from outside the walls. Unlike Portaceae where it’s now rare to see buildings rise to more than four stories, the Minoan buildings jut up well beyond the sprawling city walls and several are connected by walkways in the sky. The idea of crossing one of these aerial paths sends a lurching sensation to my gut.