The Trials of Hercules (44 page)

“Prometheus.” I drop to my knees.

“Oh, good Hades, get up. I'm a titan, not one of your praise-seeking gods.”

I rise, unsure what to do in the face of the being that gave all men fire in the darkest days after The Disaster. He doesn't hesitate. “Here, drag that damned bird over to this rock.”

I do as he asks. Once in place, he surrounds the huge bird in flame. The stench of burning feathers assaults my nostrils, but I’m soon rewarded with the scent of roasting poultry. He sits by the fire and I follow suit.

“So what brings you to the edge of Osteria?”

I feel no need to lie to the titan. After all, who would he tell? Plus, I hope he might tell me which way to head.

“I'm sent to find the golden tree of the Hesperides.”

Prometheus eyes me. I know one wrong word and the flames before me could easily be directed onto my flesh, roasting me just as they had the eagle. I tell him of all that has happened with Eury, the tasks, Iole, and even Lyta. When I’m finished, he sits for a while staring into the fire before he speaks.

“The tree you're after belongs to Hera and is in the garden of my nieces, the nymphs of the Hesperides. Because the girls can be a bit precocious, a bit forgetful about who should and shouldn't be in the garden, Hera also has another guardian for her plants.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, just a hundred-eyed dragon. A reasonable precaution because whoever possesses that tree will have control over Hera. It is her— How do I describe it? Are you familiar with the Pre-Disaster religions, some of them had a concept of a soul. The body's essence of life.”

I give a hesitant nod. I remember hearing something of it in my school days when studying the cultures of the people beyond the Middens and also that of the Pre-Disaster people who once occupied all the land from Osteria in the west to Anglia far to the east. As I knew I would be entering into the vigiles by that time in my education, I didn't work hard at those studies, but still the concept of soul strikes me as familiar.

“Good, then you understand if you take a soul—for lack of better word—you control that person. Or in this case, goddess.”

“Eury means to do away with Hera?” I ask.

“Not exactly do away with her, but to take her power for himself. Along with her power, Eury will also receive her immortality—the gift of the gods as your Olympian gods like to say even though we titans have it as well. Hera will be alive, but she will be mortal. You'll make up your own mind, but I'd advise you that no man should have the power of the gods. You lot are just too impulsive and short-sighted. Ah, I believe this bastard is ready to be eaten by me for a change.” With a wave of his hand, he lowers the flames until they’re only the size of embers. He then twists a leg off the bird and bites in. “You'll want to wait a bit. The heat doesn't bother me.” He chews and swallows with a satisfied grin. “This is a nice change. And you won't regenerate this, you avian bugger,” he says shaking the leg at the rest of the carcass.

I use my dagger to cut out a portion of the breast and, with my thoughts pushing my hunger to the background, I eat slowly. Hera is no friend of mine as she has proven time and again. I have no doubt it was she who brought on the Amazonian riot that killed Lyta and she who allowed Eury to become Solon instead of me. I owe her no allegiance.

But if Eury has her power? Possessing the tree would put her might in his hands including her immortality. Iolalus is right, the vigiles he’s been plotting with are right—we need to rid Portaceae of Eury. If he possesses this tree it will make defeating or deposing him impossible. But Hera. She’s no better. Gods forgive me, but I would prefer to be rid of them both. Or to forget them both and run to Minoa. But yet, I can’t flee from this task. The lives of both Iole and Iolalus depend on me bringing Eury this damned tree.

“Where is the garden?” I ask.

“Still going to do it?” He shrugs as if my decision makes no difference to him. “It’s a shame I can't say where the tree is.”

“You don't know where the garden of your nieces is?”

“No, only their father does. My brother Atlas.” Prometheus tosses a cluster of bones behind him and rips off the eagle’s other leg.

“And where would I find him?” I ask as I slice another portion of meat from the eagle’s breast.

“Just south of here. Look, see in the distance where the stars arc across the sky? He's under there. Literally. You'll have a trek getting to him but those horses should have little trouble.”

“And any hints on how to get past the garden’s dragon?”

“Don't go.”

“I must go. Two lives depend on it.”

“No, don't be stupid. Don’t go. Send Atlas. After all, he's the only one who can get in. Parental rights or something.”

“And he'll just go for the asking?”

“You'd be amazed at how dimwitted my brother can be. He and I are the only two—”

His words dwindle off. “Only two what?” I prod.

“I shouldn’t say. No,” he says shaking his head and throwing a thigh bone into the fire. “Damn my brothers and sisters, what loyalty do I have to them? You’re the one who saved me, right?” His disjointed questions have me wondering if perhaps Prometheus has spent too many hours in the sun while chained to his rock. I don’t know what to say, but he continues without my input. “The titans are getting restless. That’s why the earthquakes have been increasing. They’ve gone through this before, several times, in fact—they get jealous of The Twelve and wage war against humans to knock the gods down a notch. After all, with no humans to idolize them, the gods are nothing. It may come to naught, but I’m tired of holding my siblings’ secret.”

“Do the gods know?”

“I can’t see how they don’t. Like I said, they’ve gone through this before. They should know the warning signs. But sometimes the gods, like men, choose to see only what they want to see, not what’s directly under their noses. My hope is that they’re making preparations. Now, human, rest. The world isn't going anywhere. Not tonight anyway,” he says with a half-hearted chuckle.

As much as I feel compelled to jump on my horse and complete this task, and despite the worries building and pressing on my mind, my exhaustion hurtles me into a deep sleep.

I wake to Prometheus shaking my shoulder.

“See the arc of dawn?” Prometheus points to the southeast. The sky still carries the darkness of night, but a hint of pinkish-orange can be seen just at its edge. “That's where you're heading.”

Prometheus has roasted another eagle during the night. I eat my fill and then mount my chestnut. Before I can ride off, Prometheus puts a hand to my reins.

“Remember, Atlas must be the one to go to the Gardens regardless of what you choose for him to retrieve.”

I nod. “Stay on the good side of Zeus. I don't know if I'll be around next time to help you out.”

He laughs. “And you stay on Hera's good side. I hear she has one if you look hard enough. And with her on your side, you can get all you desire.”

I resist scoffing at his words. The idea of Hera and I on the same side or of her doing anything that would cause me happiness is as ridiculous as imagining an Arean who longs for peace.

I drive the horses hard for another two full days, making certain that I’m approaching the arc of dawn, then the arc of the stars. All the while, thoughts of Iole and Iolalus fill my head only to be replaced with scorn for Hera. As I ride, memories of Athena’s words creep in on me. She said Hera hated me. Why? And she had hinted at something of that hatred to do with my children’s deaths. My stomach churns, surely not even Hera can be so vile as to take a man’s children from him in such a manner. I think again of how little I owe Hera and how much I am coming to despise her.

On the third afternoon I find the titan I’ve been searching for. Bigger than Prometheus by at least half, Atlas would have been a sight to behold even if he wasn't performing his duty. In his labor he seems a work of art—an enormous being, bursting with muscle, pressing up the heavy blanket of sky. Out of nowhere I wonder if Stavros ever travelled this far on his many journeys. Stavros. My throat fills with a lump. Another dead because of me, because of Hera, because of Eury. I dismount and hobble the horses.

“Atlas, I assume?”

“Where?”

“You. You're Atlas.” Gods, he truly is dim. “I need a favor from you.”

“I don't have any favors. I don't think. I could check in my boot.”

“It's not something you have, it's something you do.”

“I can't do anything with this on my shoulders. I'm much too busy.”

“What if I took the burden for you? A break would be nice, wouldn't it? To go visit your daughters, perhaps.”

“I would like to see my girls.”

“Good and while you're there—” I tell him what I need him to retrieve. What treasure from the garden I’ve decided will be best for me and for Portaceae.

Atlas shifts the weight of the sky onto my shoulders. I stagger a few steps, but catch my balance. The pressure is unbelievable. I thought it would only feel like air, like a child's ball on my back, but this is like carrying a million wool blankets sodden with rain. The feel of the sky isn't smooth, nor is it rough; it’s just an enormous pressure. I fear I’ll be several inches shorter if Atlas doesn't hurry with his visit.

With the weight of the firmament off his shoulders, Atlas skips off like a child at play. I can only hope he won’t forget where he’s headed. At first my mind can think of little as I wrestle to endure the strain and to fight back the overwhelming desire to toss down the sky, but over time the discomfort turns to more of an annoyance than agony and my mind wanders in spirals that always close in Iole.

She has no reason to care for me, not after my betrayal with the queen, and she may even hate me, but if she wasn’t a Herene could things be different between us? If Iolalus was Solon he could dissolve my marriage, Iole could leave her duties, and I could wed her. The possibilities become impossibilities and then back again to possible as I hunch over bearing the weight of the sky.

Slowly the burden on my shoulders begins to darken over me. I worry I'll be left under it all night being slowly crushed into the ground. After the sun has traded places with the moon, and the stars have started their evening dance, I finally detect the thudding steps of Atlas as he whistles an unfamiliar tune.

“I'm back. I went across that river and then—”

“No,” I cut him off. I have no desire to know the location of the garden. I do not wish to be the human who knows this secret. A scowl creases Atlas’s face. Although he’s as daft as Prometheus said, Atlas like all titans is quick to anger. If I don’t want him storming off in a rage, I have to appease him. “I know how much you want to get back to your work and wouldn’t want you wasting your time on traveler’s tales.”

He looks at me, tilting his head like a curious dog. “Nah, I think I can take this to Portaceae.” He holds up the burlap sack. “You're good at that,” he says gesturing with the bag to my shoulders. “You can do it from now on.”

I want him to be joking but he’s much too dimwitted for humor. My shoulders take on a new dimension of pain as I imagine holding this weight until I collapse under it. I will be crushed under the sky as Eury takes his vengeance out on Iole. And after he is done with her, it won’t be long before he discovers Iolalus. I have to place my hope and their lives in the hands of Atlas’s slow wits.

“That's a great idea,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

“I know. Okay, bye.” He turns to leave.

“No, wait,” I call him back. “If I'm to be left here, could you bring me my cloak to pad my shoulders? It's there on my horse.”

“Sounds good.” He sets down the burlap sack. The horse, dwarfed by the titan, shies a little when Atlas approaches, but then allows the hulking being to remove the lion’s pelt from the saddlebag. He returns, holding the cloak out for me to take. “Here you go.”

“There's a slight problem. I'll need you to hold this while I put my cloak on. We can’t let the sky fall, can we?”

“No, no, it’s very bad when that happens. Very bad.” He places the lion’s pelt on the ground and shifts the sky from my back. The sensation of lightness shrieks through my upper body as blood rushes back into the smothered flesh. I grab the lion skin, scoop up the sack, and step backward to the horses. With a move taught to vigiles in case they need to get their horses moving in a heartbeat while serving on patrol, I whisk both hobbles off in two hasty tugs.

“Hey, that wasn't the deal,” he protests.

“Yes, actually it was.” I swing up onto the chestnut, tie the sack to the saddle, and urge the horses into a run.

I ride non-stop, driving the horses as fast as I can, convinced I’ll never get to Portaceae before Iolalus is discovered or Iole forced to submit to Eury’s punishment. The entire time I ride, a fear screams at me that I am already too late. That Iole and Iolalus are dead and I am to blame. I spur the horses faster every time this thought grasps hold of my mind. The need to stay balanced in the speeding horse’s saddle blots out all other worries.

Not wanting to pass again through Bendria, I ride north then west through the polis of Demos and into Cedonia where I have little trouble making it through the border crossings. In Cedonia, I drive the horses even further north, crossing the Great Col and then riding west to the outskirts of the polis of Helena to avoid the districts of Portaceae that are now held by the Areans. While I want to be part of the fight against them, this is not the time. The diversion puts me into the foothills of the Low Mountains, prime bandit territory. In my haste, I outpace each of the three groups of thieves that try to chase me down.

On the fourth night of riding I finally rein the horses to a hard stop in front of Portaceae City’s gates. I call out for Odysseus, but instead of the vigile, I’m greeted by the craggy face of one of the Solonian Guards. My heart sinks. I’ve already spent more time gone than I had planned. I do not want another delay.

“Gates are closed,” he grumbles.

“I’m on Solonian business,” I say. “Let me through.”

“Gates are closed,” he repeats sending a wave of irritation through me.