The Trials of Hercules (38 page)

“It is.” She sits in the chair I indicate and gawks around the room before focusing her attention back onto me. “You have to do something about Herc. He has duties under the law. Neglecting a wife is just as bad as cheating on her.”

“You know the law the Herene dug up,” I say as I sit down across the desk from her. “He must stay in the House of Hera until he is done with the—”

“The task, the tasks. Can't you just declare them done with? He's not doing anything for Portaceae.” She looks shocked at her own outburst then says in a meeker tone, “I mean, not really.”

If even this common woman has noticed my cousins’ works haven’t benefited the polis no wonder the walls of the city are lined with the people's hatred of me. But it’s too late to worry about their opinion now. The Oracle has given me hope, regardless how vague that hope may be, and I will not back down even if people start building golden statues of my cousins taller than the arena's walls.

“His crime was great. You know that. So, no, the tasks cannot be waived.”

“Then command him to be with me. You're the ruler of Portaceae, make him—”

She cuts her words off, but it’s plain what she means to say. Command Herc to love her. What a pathetic notion.

“Love is not a condition of marriage.”

Although I say the words gently, her eyes brim with tears and her nose flashes red as she snorts out a sob.

“But he's mine. You gave him to me, not to her, not to that Herene bitch. What sort of Herene keeps a man from his wife?”

Jealousy and a need for love. Gods, there’s a perfect brew. If she’s desperate enough, those two emotions could work to my advantage. After all, once the tree is found, I can't leave Herc to be a threat or a rallying point for the people no matter what power this tree might give me. But if Deianira can do my dirty work, the people won't hate me when their hero falls. For a day that began so terribly, it really is shaping up quite nicely despite the loss of a thumb.

“It is a sad and shameful business. That's the problem of allowing such a young Herene to be priestess and a matter I plan to tend to. But there is a way to get what you want from your husband.”

Her face lights up like a stray that’s just been offered a fresh hunk of steak.

“I'll do whatever it takes.”

I knew she would.

From my desk drawer, I pull out a small vial using my left hand. Inside, the red liquid still retains the warmth of life. Strange, given that single drop means death. I had saved it from the hydra blood I'd sold to the Areans. It isn't much, but it will be more than enough to do away with my cousins.

I hold the vial between my thumb and forefinger letting the contents catch the light coming in from the window. She eyes it with fascinated curiosity.

“What it is?”

“The famous Drops of Love. Feel.” I hold it out for her to touch. She brushes a tentative finger against it, then lets the finger linger as a smile forms on her paper thin lips. “What you feel is the warmth that burns in the heart of true lovers. Just a few drops of this potion will make Herc love you for all time. He will forget Iole. You will be his only thought.”

“Does it work?”

“Look at me. I'm a man with a skewed nose and paunch of a belly.” I pat my abdomen as I deliberately push it out making it look fatter than it truly is. “But yet my wife is one of the most beautiful women in all of Portaceae.”

“You gave her these?”

Oh, I've given her many things to keep her mine.

“What do you think?”

“Hand them over,” she says with an eager grin.

I start to hand her over the vial but just as she reaches for it, I snatch the vial back.

“On one condition.”

“Anything. I have money.”

“No, marriage is important to the polis so think of this as a donation. What I need is a promise from you that you will wait until the tasks are over before you give the drops to him.”

Her face pulls into a scowl as she slumps back against the chair.

“Why? He's my husband. Why should I wait for these stupid tasks?”

“My dear, you chose to marry him knowing he had duties to fulfill. Now, whether you believe it or not, his duties are vital to Portaceae, to the future of this polis. As you know we are at war with the Areans and now the Athenians may threaten to invade us. If you give this to your husband the hero before he is done getting us the resources we need to defend ourselves, he will be so distracted with his love for you he won't be able to help Portaceae. You wouldn't want to be the woman who was the ruin of the polis, would you?” She shakes her head guiltily. “Isn't it worth waiting a few weeks, a month at the most, to have him utterly besotted with you for the rest of his life? Isn't a tiny bit of patience worth it for the good of the polis?”

She looks to her hands that fidget in her lap.

“I suppose.”

“In the meantime, there's no harm in trying to get him to be with you. You're a—” I pause uncertain if even I can lie well enough for this falsehood to seem true. “You’re a lovely woman with all a woman's charm, aren't you? A frigid Herene can't compete with a woman who is ready to receive a man.”

“That's blasphemy,” she says although her amused grin eliminates any conviction in her words.

“The truth can never be blasphemy.”

I take another vial, an empty one, from my desk drawer and hold it between my right hand’s index and middle fingers. If the Oracle was right, a thumb truly is a small price to pay. I barely miss it. I decant a small amount of the hydra blood into the vial taking extreme care to keep the horrible substance off my skin. After sealing off my vial, I give Deianira a tiny cork for hers.

“I don't get more?”

“It only takes the smallest amount. They're very powerful.”

And I need to keep some for my other cousin.
There must be a desperate woman lusting for him as well.

Deianira corks the bottle then clutches it to her breast, or what should be her breast—her chest is as flat as the plains of Demos.

We stand and I walk her to the door. She turns to me, her face wet with grateful tears.

“Thank you, thank you. You truly are kind, Excellency.” She reaches to grab my bound right hand, but I present my left. She kisses it repeatedly with her thin, cold lips.

“Portaceae and her people are foremost in my mind. Now, remember your promise. None until he is released from his tribute.”

“Of course, anything. Thank you.” She bows her way out the door.

29

H
ERC

Even on the swift horses from Augeus’s stables, it takes several days to ride north to the port town from which we can reach the kingdom of Amazonia—a large island off the coast of the Vancuse polis that is most easily accessed from the ports near the polis of Seattica. Iolalus and I pass the entirety of the first day in silence despite the many words I want to hurl at him. His comfortable companionship with Iole grates at me worse than salt in a saddle sore. By the afternoon of the second day, it seems my cousin can stay silent no longer—but just because he can’t hold his tongue doesn’t mean I have to respond.

After several failed attempts to engage me in chit chat regarding the lack of clouds, a herd of elk he spies in a field, and a tree leaning at an odd angle, Iolalus curtly says, “I see Iole as nothing but a friend.”

“She sees you as more,” I mutter.

“Yes, she sees me as your cousin. The cousin of the man I’m quite certain is leaving her questioning her devotion to the Herene lifestyle.”

“There’s no question. She has made her choice and I’m not it.”

“Well neither am I. You fell for a Herene. You’re probably not the first to do so and you’re probably not the first to find out their vows mean something to them. So stop taking it out on me. We’ve got a long journey and I don’t plan to pass it in silence.”

As much as I hate them, his words ring true with painful clarity. I’ve fallen for a woman I can’t have. It isn’t a new tale, just one I don’t relish being a part of. And, of course Iole would befriend Iolalus. Nearly everyone does.

“I’ve been a jerk.”

“Yes, you have,” Iolalus agrees amicably.

It’s dawn on our fourth day of traveling when we enter the port town—simply called the Dock Lands—that nestles between the polis of Seattica and the polis of Athenos. To remain neutral when the poli squabble or battle, the Dock Lands exists as an independent Osterian kingdom and each dock has become its own separate kingdom within the kingdom. The dock owners fly different banners of their own design to distinguish their realm from neighboring docks.

Riding along the waterfront it’s difficult to decide which dock tender to give our custom to. Gruff men, some as stout as a ship themselves and others as thin as masts, linger at the end of their dock kingdom each shouting they have the best boats for the cheapest fare. We ride past them—no one who has a quality item to offer needs to shout so loudly to attract business. Other dock lords have planks missing from their wooden realms and bird waste splattered over those planks that remain. Worried this might be how they care for their boats as well, we continue on until we find a dock flying a banner that features a peacock with a bleeding heart clutched in its claws.

“This seems appropriate,” Iolalus remarks.

I look over the dock. It’s well kept with sturdy boards that, from the sheen of wet across their length, appear to have been recently washed. The boats—although most are small except for a large, sleek vessel at the end of the dock—all have the appearance of being clean and cared for. We dismount and tie the horses at the end of the dock to inspect what this dock lord has to offer. Having little experience with boats of any size, I have no idea what to look for, but fear being swindled if I allow my naiveté to show.

As we approach a small square structure perched midway along the dock’s length, a man of perhaps fifty steps out. Salt and pepper curls spring out from under the black wool cap pulled over his head.

“Help ya?”

“This will do,” I say to the boat tender indicating a small row boat. It looks manageable even for two people who have no experience crossing anything wider than a river.

“Where you headed?”

“Amazonia.”

The man’s brow furrows in confusion as if he’s heard wrong. He then raises his eyebrows and tilts his head in an expression that clearly says he thinks we’re crazy, but that he isn’t one to argue with a customer.

“Well, you don't be wanting that. Too small. That there’s just for pleasure seekers looking to row about the harbor.”

I point to a larger version of the same boat. This one has two sets of oars and a shade over the rowers’ seats.

“Would do,” he says with an amused look on his face. “But the wind is up and you'll never get through the passage without popping y’er shoulder out of its socket. You haven’t spent much time on the water, have you?”

“How about you show us what you'd take,” Iolalus says.

“Well, I'd not go at all, but since y’er asking, you can't go wrong with that.” He points to a boat that measures about the length of four men my own size laying head to foot. At the bow, a prow curves up to form an elaborate spiral and at the ship’s rear hangs a hand-guided rudder. Jutting from the center of the boat is a mast as tall as the boat is long and from the sail springs a cobweb of ropes. We follow the dock lord and board the ship. Even knowing nothing about boats, I can see this vessel is finely crafted.

“She's big enough to tackle the conditions you’ll encounter, but not too big to be unmanageable.” He opens a door that’s set into the floor. “Here is your below decks. Beds, workspace, kitchen, head. Nothing fancy but good enough.”

“She’s beautiful, but we haven’t a clue how to handle this,” I admit.

“That’s why she comes with a couple crew members who'll work the sails. You'll have to assist with jibs and odd jobs but nothing too complicated unless a storm kicks up.” He looks to the sky straight above him and then follows some line only he can see to the west. “Looks like you should have good weather and there’s a south wind that can get you there in half a day. Unless you’d prefer the row boat.”

“No, this is perfect,” I say.

With only a few rounds of haggling, we settle on a price and I put the horses in his care as security for any damage. We collect our packs from the horses and I’m glad I’ve brought the lion’s pelt despite the bulk it adds to my gear. Although I’m wearing my traveling cloak, I know the chill in the air will pierce straight through it once on the water. Nothing, not even the bitterest wind can slice through the lion’s skin.

The crew, two men of about Iolalus's age, appear moments after the deal is done. A blonde man with wiry strength introduces himself as Perseus before he sets to work checking the ropes. Pirro, a small man with close-cropped black hair and olive skin, greets us warmly before scuttling up the mast to inspect the sail riggings. Within an hour we’re pushing away from the dock.

After following a few commands to ready the sails, Perseus offers us a jug of wine that Iolalus and I swap back and forth as we watch the water splash against the bow. The day is clear and beautiful with just enough wind to push us along at a moderate clip. Perseus and Pirro call back and forth to one another in a fast-paced dialect that’s hard to follow as they whisk the ship through the gauntlet of small islands dotting the channel between the mainland of Osteria and the kingdom of Amazonia.

It’s too idyllic to dwell on Iole’s scorn or my wife’s desires. On the sea with the wind on my skin, the chatter of the crew dancing through my ears, and each island’s individual beauty filling my vision, I can’t dwell on the complexities of Portaceae. My love for Iole, which she apparently no longer returns, and my duty to my wife blow away like the wisps of salt spray flying from the ship’s bow. Being so far away from Portaceae, both the idea of making an effort to be a good husband to Deianira and my yearning for Iole feel equally ridiculous and impossible. Here on this boat and on the water, I’m free and for the first time since the start of these trials, I do not relish the idea of returning to my own polis.