The Trials of Hercules (26 page)

“Your Highness, another message has come.”

“Thank you, Euphemia.” I take the letter from her gnarled hands, the knuckles swelling out like galls on an oak branch. I’m so distracted by my worries that I forget to correct the title she has given me before she hobbles back down the hall to the stairs.

I turn the letter over. The peacock with a crown stamped into the red sealing wax stirs an annoyed curiosity within me. What news could Eury have for me? Has he already heard of the Areans’ attack? I break the seal and scan the message. Thankfully, the chair catches me when my legs fail to give me support.

“Iole? Are you alright?” Maxinia rushes to me. “Is it more bad news?”

I swallow hard, trying to take air into my chest that feels as if a centaur’s hoof is crushing it.

“Yes, it is.” I stand, supporting myself on the door jamb. “Please excuse me.”

Crinkling the letter in my fist, I go into the hall and push open one of the windows to take in deep gulps of air. Unwilling to leave my rooms until I’ve composed myself, I curl onto the window seat that looks out over the courtyard. Along the paths, Herc and Iolalus walk the courtyard’s perimeter and even the older acolytes turn their heads to watch the handsome pair. Iolalus’s face and arms are covered in a pale yellow ointment, one of Cecilia’s miraculous concoctions that she had applied over his wounds when the two men returned last night. Despite his injuries, Iolalus still seems to humor his cousin who wears an amused grin.

What a fool I must be to have thought it would come to anything other than this.

Of course he will have to be married. Yesterday had been his official birthday by Eury’s reckoning and, thanks to my silly imagination, I’ve been ignoring the plain fact that Portaceae’s men do not remain single for long. Did I think he could stay at the House of Hera with me? Had I been foolish enough to believe anything could come of my affection for him? Herene of the Herenes I may be, but it doesn’t stop my emotions or longings.

When he had returned from being sent to the Malion Swamps—a horrible trick that had earned Eury another dose of discord from his people
—
and presented the white mare to me, had I read too much into the look in his eye? My love-blind heart had interpreted it as a look of longing, the look of seeing someone who you had missed, the look of being reunited with someone you love. But my stern, logical brain insisted he was only being polite, that he was replacing the horses Eury had taken, that he had no interest in an unobtainable servant of Hera.

“She’s beautiful,” I had said as the horse nuzzled her satin-soft nose against my hand.

“It’s only fitting you should have her,” he replied.

“And yours, he’s lovely. Perhaps we can go riding together when this tribute business is done.” My words felt bold, but I feared he would scoff at them.

“I would like that,” he said smiling with his ocean blue eyes fixed on mine.

My heart had flown into a torrent of confusion and wishful thoughts, but the letter crumpled in my hand has awoken me to the reality that he is a male citizen of Portaceae, he is thirty years old, he is widowed. He has to be married. The Herenes, as his guardian, will take him to the arena where he will either choose a woman for himself or Eury will select one from a herd of volunteers. Eury will then sign and place his seal on the document registering their union as I wrap a cloth embroidered with fans of peacock tails around their joined hands. I throw the letter to the floor and tuck myself into my window seat, clutching my legs and arms against my body as tight as possible.

As I watch Herc in the courtyard take some corn from Euphemia, I remember watching the ceremony of his first wedding day. I’d been with the Herenes for seven years including my two-year period of study. When I was called to assist at the event, I had tried to convince the head priestess I was too ill to go, but she wasn’t one to allow a slight stomach complaint to keep one from her duties. Only months after the ceremony, she died and I took her place as head Herene and the woman who would oversee all weddings. Even this one.

Watching him then in his ceremonial vigile breast plate standing tall and proud, but with his hands giving a telling tremble of nerves, I couldn’t help but wish he’d pick me—apparently I was a fool even then to think a man would risk his life to love a priestess of Hera. Instead, he chose Megara, the daughter of one of his mother’s close friends. Megara readily agreed. A small flick of jealousy smoldered within me as I watched Herc and Megara’s hands be bound, but on the same side of the coin, I was glad he wouldn’t have to face the raucous taunts that erupted from the audience whenever a woman refused. Much of the jeers had to do with the size of the groom’s manhood. But on that occasion they didn’t get a chance to throw their verbal spears.

From the courtyard below, Iolalus looks up to my window and gives a cheerful wave. Herc, turning his attention to what his cousin is looking at, waves as well. The peacock he’s been feeding, pecks his hand causing Herc to drop his handful of corn. Herc’s face pulls into a frustrated scowl, but Iolalus’s laughter becomes infectious and soon both Herc and Euphemia are chuckling along with him.

What am I to do at today’s ceremony when my stomach is already gnawing on itself at the thought of this wedding? I love him. It’s an achingly unrequited love that can never be acknowledged, but it is love nonetheless. How can I be expected to hold my composure as I bind his hand to that of another woman? I now understand a little of the jealousy that consumes my mother whenever Zeus beds another. Unlike her, I refuse to let my feelings overwhelm me. However, there is no reason to give him up without a fight.

I crawl out of the window seat, take another look out the window to see Herc tentatively petting a peacock, snatch up the crumpled letter, and then return to my office. Maxinia, her face filled with concern, looks up from her tallies.

“I need the book with the laws regarding tributes,” I tell her.

She sets down her quill and, with a grace that is surprising to see in a woman so large, she strides without hesitation to the shelf of books along the south wall of the room. Running her finger along the spines, she scans them for a moment before pulling out a thick tome bound in green leather. She places it on my desk.

“This is the one. I believe it’s best to start around page one hundred and twenty nine. The first portion is mainly the history of the laws.” She hesitates before adding, “And we’ve yet to see a posting from His Excellency.”

I sigh. Some days it feels as if the Herenes are the only ones holding the polis together.

“Which is why we have the Areans barking at our door. I’ll tend to the matter soon. Just try to find some money somewhere. This polis needs to obtain weapons and fortifications somehow or we will lose Portaceae altogether.” She nods agreement and the expression on her face tells me her mind is already working out the figures.

“Before you get back to your work, please let Herc know he is to be to the arena an hour before sunset.”

“Another trial?”

“You could say that.” I hand her the balled up letter. “Please deliver this to him.”

Maxinia leaves the room, ducking her head as she passes through the doorway. I open the book on my desk and begin my search.

I study the book through the afternoon. When I find the law I’ve been looking for, I read its entirety several times until I’ve memorized the details. I’m still uncertain whether or not I will use the knowledge. If Herc chooses someone or if he appears pleased with the wife selected for him, I am resolved to quit this silly line of thinking. But if he doesn’t—

“My lady, it’s time to dress,” Estia says. Despite being in my service for four years, her speech still carries the curious accent of the Califf Lands with its sleek vowels and words that flow into one another. She is a slim, tiny woman with a flair for making an appearance. The skill she has for changing my limited wardrobe with only a few embellishments never fails to impress and surprise me.

I follow her to my dressing room where a gown awaits me. She slips it over my head and chatters away as she does her work. After nearly an hour of her slipping pieces of fabric over me and weaving things into my hair, she turns me to face a mirror.

“I look amazing, Estia,” I blurt. I blush at how vain it sounds, but it’s impossible to contain my pleasure over what she’s done, how unforgettable she’s made me appear.

Silver strands of thin ribbon snake and braid their way through my near white hair giving it a metallic shimmer when the light hits it. Although the effect appeals to me, it doesn’t distract my eyes long from what Estia has done to decorate my body.

The plain white gown, the same one I wore the day Herc was to be sent under, has been transformed under Estia’s hands. The lower portion is now a long and flowing garment of two layers—the top being sheer, with the under one fitted to my body. The layering gives the gown a sensual appearance while retaining the modesty my position requires.

Cinching the dress at my waist is a silver band from which dangles dozens of thin silver chains that Estia assures me will sway without tangling as I walk. The bodice, plain and loose the last time I had worn it, is now form-fitting and embellished with a row of silver embroidery along the neckline that dips just to where my breasts curve out. In a final flourish of fabric, Estia produces a ceremonial cloak of white silk with a row of silver peacock silhouettes stitched along the hem. She drapes it over my shoulders, arranges it until it sits evenly, then fastens it with a sliver chain.

“They say in the Pre-Disaster world that women wore gowns of white to their weddings.” Her words nearly collapse my composure. I push down the image of Herc and me standing together, of him choosing me, of having our hands bound together as Portaceae looks on.

The bells begin tolling to announce a gathering in the arena. I thank and praise Estia for her work.

“Between you and the groom, I do not know who will capture the crowd’s attention more strongly. He did not want to, but I insisted he wear the pelt. It was a marvelous idea of mine, if I do say so.” She clasps my hands and kisses me quickly on each cheek as the bells continue their call.

Approaching the arena with Maxinia by my side, I thank the gods for the private entrance the Herenes share with the Solon. The queues to enter the arena sprawl around the structure and even the least observant person wouldn’t fail to notice the majority are women dressed in their finest clothes. I can’t stop myself from scanning the lines wondering if one of the women in my view will be Herc’s bride.

After skirting around Eury’s ridiculous carriage, Maxinia and I duck into the arena’s rear entrance. In the low light of the arena’s interior, Maxinia and I pause so I can hand her the plain linen cloak I’ve worn over my ceremonial cloak and dress to keep them from being covered with road dust on our walk over. As I pass it to her, I hear wet sounds and heavy breathing. I give Maxinia a questioning look but she only shrugs. We head toward the ramp that leads up to the dais.

When we pass the side hall that houses the stairs to the Solon’s and Herenes’ box seats, the source of the sounds becomes clear. Eury’s tall, regal servant is pressing a woman against the wall of the stairwell. Her legs twine around him as his hips thrust rhythmically.

“Adneta,” he murmurs. She moans and lets out a passionate cry. He covers her mouth with his to quiet her as they both heave against each other.

I should be offended. I should call the vigiles. By Hera’s law, adultery is punishable with hard labor, but I find it’s a law I have no desire to enforce when the man being cuckolded is Eury Stephanos. Let him be made a fool of as he makes a fool of Portaceae.

Maxinia and I continue up the ramp and to the dais where Eury paces back and forth glancing up at his box with every turn. No doubt he’s wondering where his wife has gotten to. I give a brief nod to greet him, but rather than acknowledge it, his eyes drift up to the box and then to my breasts.

“A word, Excellency. I’ve had a message from East Portaceae.”

“Can’t it wait? This is supposed to be festive,” he says irritably. He looks up again and his anxious fidgeting stops.

I follow his gaze up to the box where Adneta has finally appeared with her cheeks flushed. She gives Eury a wave and blows him a kiss. The servant stands in the back of the box staring off into the distance, his face masked with a bored expression. Eury, his wife accounted for, turns his attention back to me.

“No, it can’t. Portaceae has been attacked,” I say. My voice is filled with bile, but the Solon only smirks at me. “You need to get money into the treasury so we can strengthen the city walls and raise an army. A trained army of mobilized vigiles from Portaceae and any other polis that will help us, not a cluster of Nemean farmers with scythes and stones.”

“Shouldn’t your mother be taking care of this?”

Before I can respond, trumpets blare and my stomach somersaults. Weddings are the only time trumpets announce the groom rather than the Solon. Typically, Eury accepts this as part of tradition, but when he hears the trumpets calling for Herc, the Solon’s face pinches with displeasure that only increases when he sees his cousin. Herc is led up the ramp to the dais by two Herenes with Iolalus following behind. The chattering from the arena’s packed seats falls silent at the sight of him.

Dressed in his ceremonial white vigile tunic and high leather boots Herc looks bold and brave, the image of a hero. Estia’s hand in creating his outfit is obvious. Silver ribbons, much like the ones in my hair have been worked into the boots’ laces and she has decorated the leather flaps that hang like a skirt from his belt with silver paint. Over his torso, Estia has donned Herc in his ceremonial armor—a shining steel breastplate embossed with a peacock. Rather than hide his physique, the covering emphasizes it.

As with me, Estia has given Herc a cloak to wear. But his is not a feminine garment of silk and stitches. Made of the lion’s cream-toned pelt, the cloak has been sun-bleached to a brilliant white. The claws of the front paws—designed to rest on his shoulders—have been tipped in silver, the skin of the lion’s head now fits as a cowl, and the tawny mane glints with silvery highlights. Completing the effect of the undefeatable hero, the upper jaw of the lion rests on Herc’s forehead as if the beast were bearing down on him with silver-tipped teeth.