The Trials of Hercules (35 page)

I refused.

“They’re ours now, big man,” a scruffy fellow who must have been posing as leader of the band said.

“Are you from around here?” I asked.

“What’s it to ya if we are?”

“Do you know Diomedes?”

The men exchanged glances. Their expressions showed they knew of whom I spoke.

“Good,” I continued. I wished Iolalus was with us. He was the one with the quick tongue and would have had these men feeling like a band of idiots in only two sentences, then befriending them in another two. I don’t have his gift and had to hope threats would serve. “Then you know of his horses. His flesh-eating horses. These are those animals.” I pointed to Blondie whose pale face highlighted the maroon stains of her last meal. “I only need to remove these bindings—” I raised my hand to the knot at Blaze’s muzzle.

The men’s eyes went wide as stones.

“No,” the leader blurted. “We was only japing. Seeing what you’re made of. No harm done.”

“No, no harm done,” I agreed. “But be mindful. Centaurs are patrolling the outskirts of Portaceae. If they catch you, you’ll be put up against the Areans. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for the news. Come men.”

The band hurried off, throwing fearful glances over their shoulders, perhaps worried I would set the horses on them after all.

On the trip back I took every moment I could to pet the horses, hug them, and offer them pieces of apple I had in my travel pack. As much as possible, I allowed my horse and Altair’s to show them how to be a horse among humans. It took much convincing, but I encouraged Altair to do the same. On our third night, we were left exposed when a lightning storm barreled through. When Blondie and Trouble huddled next to me to seek comfort, I knew we were making progress. With a patient and easy hand, the horses could be made into excellent mounts.

On the final ten miles to the city, I took the bindings from Blaze’s mouth. He had proven to be the biggest baby of them all. Despite having only been fed grass and apple for several days, he made no attempt to bite me or Altair. Still, within the city, I feared the bustling streets, running children, and curious hands might be too much for the ill-treated animals. Once the city walls came into view, I took the caution to bind the horse’s mouth again.

Diomedes’s steeds weren't uncontrollable beasts, simply horses that needed proper training and kindness. But that kindness came too late and Eury was too hot headed to understand how to treat an abused animal. I should have never taken them to him. I should have taken them to Astoria to work under the best horse trainers in Osteria. I should have kept them away until they were fully trained, until we could use their blood lust in a controlled manner on the battlefield.

Their deaths were my fault. Eury had given me as much time as I needed on this task, but I rushed the animals to him with Altair trailing behind. I'd wanted the task to be done so I could return to the House of Hera. In my haste to be near Iole I'd gotten four strong animals and a good man killed.

I take Altair’s body to his home and lay him on his bed. After saying my farewells and apologies to him, I go to his mother’s home. She breaks down the moment she sees his horse without a rider. I hear the children playing in the yard behind her home and am thankful I don’t have to face them as I explain to her what happened. I offer the woman the camera telling her she can sell it to support the children, but she pushes it away.

“That thing is a death machine,” she wails. “It kills people. You kill people.”

I don’t know what to say. My throat has constricted so tightly, even if I had the right words to console her, I don’t think I could say them. I hand her the reins of Altair’s horse and turn away.

In the courtyard of the House of Hera, Iole tends to a tomato plant that has been smashed flat—one of the peacocks has apparently been using the vegetable beds as its nest again. My mood lightens slightly at the sight of her. I walk my chestnut through the courtyard wanting to swing the priestess up onto his back, jump on, and ride away with her. Together we could forget all the troubles of Portaceae. Troubles I now know I can do nothing to solve no matter what efforts I make.

From the stable behind the House, two horses call out in cheerful whinnies. When my chestnut replies, Iole looks up from the mangled vines. Her face carries no hint of greeting, no sign that she is glad I’ve returned. She stands and wipes her hands on the apron she wears over her dress. A streak of green shows where her hands have passed. Her eyes, where I hope to find some sign of friendship, reveal no hint of warmth.

“It's time you go home to your wife.”

Her words hit me in the gut.

“My home is here,” I say. Then, more quietly, “You are my home.”

Her chin wavers and her glare softens. But then she shakes her head as if shaking out her unwanted emotions and fixes her face in a stern, cruel countenance. In that moment, she resembles the statue of her mother in the temple.

“The law states you must stay in the House of Hera, but you have duties to your wife. I suggest you see to them.” She kneels back down to her plant as I stand there dumbly. Her back is to me. Her long braid running down to her waist makes me want to stroke her hair. I only want to touch her, to talk to her. I need words of comfort only she can provide.

Iole brushes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Go,” she commands.

The other women in the yard stare at me. Euphemia starts hobbling toward me, rake in hand, ready to chastise me for disturbing her gravel. Ignoring them, I grip the camera so hard I can feel the handle driving into my palm. I spin on my heel, give a light tug on my horse’s reins, and stride off with him to Peacock Lane.

Along the way, people glare at me. No one offers me a greeting. No one cheers me. Flyers that once plastered walls of buildings have been ripped, leaving only stubborn fragments with tattered words of support I no longer feel and no longer deserve.

The moment I step inside Deianira’s door I’m greeted with the cloying smell of cooked onions. Deianira stands at the wood-fired brazier, her hair hovering dangerously close to the flame.

“Decide to grace me with your presence, hero? Well, stew's nearly done.” She gestures with a cracked, wooden spoon to the pot in front of her. There’s no smell of meat and my only thought is that she must be cooking a stew comprised entirely of onions. “After we eat, you will bed me and we will repeat the act as many times as I need. How could you insult me like that? That comment about your cousin guarding a precious object. Do you think I enjoy being a laughingstock? Just the other day—”

I turn and walk out the door.

Despite the stench of Deianira’s cooking, my stomach rumbles in protest at not getting fed. I walk to the nearest tavern, but the owner brusquely says he’s closing for the day. I try another eatery a few buildings down, but each item I order just happens to be out of stock. The next place I visit, a rundown bar that’s always desperate for customers, flat out refuses to let me in. My stomach growls with a ferocious hunger. Vigile training has granted me the ability to go days without food and still be able to fight, but after the hearty food of the Herenes, I’ve grown accustomed to plentiful meals when I return from a task.

I grudgingly accept I won’t be eating this afternoon when a vendor catches my eye and jerks his head to indicate I should come to him. I walk over, still carrying Altair’s camera. The feel of it reminds me of him. How can I be so focused on my own hunger when he’s dead? Still, my belly is empty and this vendor seems my only chance. As I near him he pretends not to see me, but behind his back he holds a bulging bag. I grab it as I go by. I shift the bag to the crook of my armpit and pull out a coin from my waist pouch. As I pass by I slip the coin onto the corner of his cart, then continue my trek to the edge of Forested Park.

When he sees me, Frederic moos a greeting and ambles over on his stocky legs. I set the camera down on a stump and go to the red bull who moves his head up and down under my hand with a look of utter contentment on his face.

“At least you're glad to see me.”

Law or not, duty or not, I remain in the field using Frederic as a back rest as I eat the sack of food—roasted chestnuts and dried summer plums—offering Frederic a piece of each. I sleep through the night in the soft grass disturbed by images of dead horses, dead children, and dead friends. In the morning, I accept that I can’t hide in this field forever. I ruffle Frederic behind the ears, pick up the camera, and head back to the House of Hera wondering what manner of greeting I will receive.

When I walk the chestnut through the Peacock Gate, Iole is the first sight that greets my eyes. Iolalus chats with her and both wear broad smiles on their faces as if they can’t stop smiling when near one another. I grip the camera tighter and the chestnut tosses his head at the sudden yank I’ve given the reins. Is this why she dismissed me so readily yesterday? Why hadn’t I seen it before? Iolalus. Everybody loves Iolalus. How could they not? He’s amiable, humorous, and above all, not a blood crimer. I nod a curt greeting to them without meeting their eyes, then take my horse to the stables.

As I’m heading to the staircase, hoping I can avoid speaking to either Iole or her newfound love, Iolalus jogs up to me, a letter in his hand. When I see the broken wax stamped with a crowned peacock, my entire body takes on a heaviness as if a boulder has been dumped on my shoulders.

“Another task?”

“Appears so,” he replies handing the letter to me. I scan it with disbelief, then crumple it into my pouch.

“Let’s just hope no one dies this time.”

I turn to continue on to the stairs, to head to my room to prepare for another of Eury’s pointless errands. Before I’ve taken two steps, Iole calls to Iolalus. Her words, which I only want to be directed to me, to be kind and comforting, to say she’s sorry for what she said the day before, do nothing but ignite my blood into a blaze of jealousy.

27

I
OLE

“Iolalus, before you go, a moment please,” I say. Herc glares at us, then shoves the camera into Iolalus’s hands before storming off. I want to call after him, but Iolalus beats me to it. Herc fires a look back at us before slamming the stairwell door behind him.

“I—” I start to say but give up. There are more pressing matters than explaining myself. “Eury also sent a message stating that he’s finally decided to meet with me. I would appreciate it if you were there as well.”

“I need to prepare. If he still wants me to go.” Iolalus’s gaze shifts to the upper story of the guest wing then to the camera in his hands. “I don’t know what’s got him so angry.”

I don’t remark on his comment. My words yesterday came at a bad time. If only I’d realized Eury had killed the horses and Altair only moments before I said what I did. But there’s little use in cursing myself for words I can’t take back.

“He’ll let you go. And he knows what you need. I would prefer to not be alone with Eury. Maxinia is at Altair’s ensuring that his children have food to eat. If I’d been given some forewarning Eury was finally ready to meet with me, I would have had her wait—”

“Of course, I can be there,” he says, cutting me off. “Is there some reason you’re worried?”

“I'm afraid of his reaction to what I have to say, but you and your sword in the room might keep him in check. Can you be there in half an hour’s time?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Here, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this.” He hands me the camera. It’s lighter than I thought it would be. I have no idea how the machine works and, to tell the truth, I feel wary of it. My only hope is that I can see the thing sold and the money passed on to Altair’s children, but for now I take the contraption to my office and set it on Maxinia’s table before settling at my desk to gather my thoughts—and my courage—before Eury arrives.

Iolalus appears on time dressed in full vigile regalia—a shining helmet that leaves his face exposed except where a metal plate protects his nose, hardened leather chest armor embossed with Portaceae’s peacock symbol, stiff leg guards tied over knee-high leather boots, and a short sword in a scabbard at his waist. Despite his youth and my knowing his true gentle character, he makes an imposing figure.

The image of him as a fighter is erased when a childlike expression crosses his face at the sight of the camera.

“How does it work?” Iolalus asks as he presses a few buttons on the contraption.

“These electrical machines are beyond me. You should probably just leave it. Gods know what it might—” From the corner of my eye I see someone crossing the courtyard. A grating feeling like fingernails being dragged over my insides burns through my stomach. “He’s here. Stand somewhere.” Iolalus rushes over to stand at attention behind my desk.

Without even bothering to knock, Eury thrusts open my office door and swaggers as if imitating one of the peacocks in the courtyard. The moment he catches sight of Iolalus he stops in mid-step. The falter lasts only a moment before he flops into the chair placed in front of my desk. I take my seat. My legs jitter under the desk, but I keep my face neutral.

“What is this all about?”

“To begin with, you still haven’t posted the funds you promised into the treasury. And yet—” I continue despite his attempt to interrupt. “And yet, your household expenditures appear to show an increase.”

I push a paper toward him. He glances at it and his lips flutter as he struggles for an excuse.

“Those are private numbers.”

“You are the Solon. You serve the people of Portaceae. Your numbers are their numbers.”

Eury lets out a haughty scoff. “If the money is gone, what can you do?”

“The law says many things can be done. The Herenes have not employed them in the past because we foolishly believed your never-ending promises. But it’s getting to a breaking point. The Arean invasion has already taken all of the Nemea District. They could be to Portaceae City in a matter of days. And your recent stunt with Stavros will no doubt have the Athenians barking at our door. We can't handle a two-pronged attack without money for weapons, fortifications, soldiers.” I pound my index finger into the paper with each of the final three words. “You could lose this polis because of your failure to act. You're more concerned with sending your cousins on silly missions than helping Portaceae.”