The Trials of Hercules (40 page)

Even without these embellishments she would still be one of the most captivating women I've ever seen. She stops at the bow looking up at me with eyes of dark amber.

“Why are you here?”

“To ask a favor of you, my queen.” I bow low, when I dare to look up, I catch a hint of a smile at the edge of her lips.

“How do you know I'm queen?”

I lean over the rail and she leans in closer. The women nearest us shift their spears ready to defend their queen.

“Because only a queen could steal without punishment,” I whisper. Where the words come from, I can’t say. Perhaps the wine, perhaps the sense of freedom the sea instills in a man. I have never been clever when speaking to women, especially women this alluring. But something about her, something about the sea air, something about being away from the weight of Portaceae stirs a mischievous candor in me.

“And what have I stolen?”

“My heart, of course. Surely you must have stolen many men's hearts.”

This time a smile flashes on her face as if she can’t do anything to hold it back. Just as quickly as it appears, she erases it. “And then I am said to either put them on stakes or grill them for my supper.” Her words are sharp, but her eyes glint with amusement. “Lower the plank,” she commands the crew. “Or do you expect me to leap on board like a cat?”

Perseus and Pirro mumble their apologies and fumble over each other to shift the gangplank out to her. Even this capable duo can’t manage themselves at the sight of Lyta, Queen of Amazonia.

Lyta climbs on board, taking my hand for balance as she steps down from the plank onto the deck.

“And you are?”

“Hercules Dion of Portaceae.”

“Dion. Son of Zeus,” she remarks eying me with curious admiration.

“I do not know my father.”

“Then you should tell everyone Zeus is your father. After all, his bastards rarely know of their godly sire. Many claim it, but with you they’d believe it,” she says casually. Clearly the importance of male parentage that fuels the gossip mills of Portaceae has never been an issue on this island of women.

Lyta strolls along the deck looking about. From the dock and the streets of the village, thousands of pairs of humorless eyes watch us with disapproval. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private? Discuss what it is you want from me?” She grins at me with full, glistening lips.

“Below decks,” I say pulling open the door set in the deck. “Apparently quite a selling point for this vessel.”

“Indeed,” she says as she slips through the doorway.

Iolalus rushes over and tugs at my arm. “What are you planning to do?” he asks in a whisper that is ripe with judgmental bitterness.

I look down at Lyta and am rewarded by a pleasant view of the cleavage created by her bodice.

“Whatever the queen wants.”

“And Iole?” he accuses.

Guilt sends a pang through me until I recall the priestess's harsh command that I leave her to go to another woman.

“Does not love me. She sent me away. I'm not married to her. If you have concerns for my fidelity, they should be for Deianira. Now if you don't mind, I believe I've found my mermaid.”

I step below decks closing the door behind me. Below the bow is a small door marked
Head
. At the middle of the ship spreads a galley to the left and a table to the right, but Lyta bypasses these areas and slinks to the door at the rear. She opens it and looks back at me.

“Nice place.”

Inside is a tight yet cozy sleeping space with a full bed and cabinets for storage. The Amazonian queen stops by the bed. She’s taller than any woman I've been near, so tall she’s able to look me in the eye without tilting her head up. The afternoon warmth has heated the room making the double layer of cloak and pelt unbearable. I remove the garments and toss them on the bed. When I turn, Lyta is next to me.

“So, Herc Dion, what was it you wanted?”

To tell her the things I want would run the gamut from bringing my children back, to understanding Iole's sudden hatred of me, to not being at the beck and call of Eury, to returning Portaceae to glory, to fleeing my polis altogether. But seeing her sensuous beauty, smelling the spicy scent of her skin, feeling the heat radiating from her body, all other wants slip away. She’s like a flower whose scent is so intoxicating that even someone allergic to it wants to take a deep inhale of the fragrance.

“I want your belt,” I say simply.

She gives me a wry smile and arches an eyebrow before unclasping the brooch of the belt. It delivers a metallic tinkle as she slides it from her waist. When she wraps the belt twice around my upper arm, the metal still retains the warmth from pressing against her body and her touch sends bolts of lightning through me. She finishes by clasping the brooch to secure the belt. When done, she doesn't move away.

“So simple. You asked, it's yours. And that's truly all you want from me?” she asks as her lips graze my ear.

I think of saying that it is, that I have the belt, I’ve done my duty, and I must now return to Portaceae to face further trials. Images of Iole flash through my head—our riding away together from the blood crime vault, her touch when she showed me my room in the tribute’s wing, her beauty on my wedding day. But the final image, the image that blots out all the others, is of her telling me, ordering me to go away from her and the harsh glare she sent me away with.

It takes being this far away to realize that dreams of Iole are only that. Dreams, figments of my imagination. Whereas this woman, this embodiment of passion only a whisper away from my lips is real. The warmth coming off her skin, the smell of her body, the touch of her fingers are all real.

“It's all I came for. It's not all I want,” I say in her ear before placing a kiss on her neck.

“Anything is yours for the asking.” She brushes her lips against my cheek. I slide my hands from the curve of her bodice to the swell of her hips. I move my mouth back to her ear, brushing her hair to make the bells sing.

“I want to hear the sounds of those bells as you ride me.” I press my body to hers, kissing her breasts as I slip them out of the bodice. I suck them until she moans and when I reach between her legs, she gasps with surprised pleasure. Her hand slides up my tunic, stroking and then grasping me to guide me onto the bed.

The act is a rush of excitement and over with much too soon.

“I forgot to give you what you wanted,” she says as she leans over to bite my nipple. My moan makes her laugh. “Stay with me Herc, be king of Amazonia. We don't have the rules, the laws, the troubles of Portaceae. Bed me nightly and give me children. The boys will be vigiles in the poli and our girls will be warrior queens on this island.”

“Why me? Surely you can have your choice of the most powerful men in Osteria.”

“You’re right. Men have come here trying to please me with words and gifts. So far, no one has made me want them. You have. Stay with me.” Her words are flippant, but her eyes plead with me to accept.

“How could I stay here? I thought the Amazonians hated men.” I trace my finger along her inner thigh.

“They do. Their queen does not. And don’t believe all tales you hear. The men I send away, those who don’t meet my approval, will tell any tale to make it seem it wasn’t their fault they were scorned. Being run out of the harbor by a wild band of arrow-wielding women certainly sounds better than being unable to satisfy a woman’s needs. Besides, how would I make an heir without a man?” She kisses me. “Without you? Will you stay?”

Her hand begins stirring me back to life. I lean in to kiss her, pulling her into my arms even as her hand continues its work. The gods be damned, I never want to return to Portaceae if I can stay here with her.

The complications, the polis in ruins, the strict laws and petty gods, none of it matters. It all seems suddenly so pointless. I should have left ages ago to seek my destiny somewhere other than languishing in the doldrums of Portaceae. Perhaps destiny has found me.

“Yes,” I reply and a wave of relief washes over me. Never before have I felt more certain that I’ve made the right decision. I will be king here with a passionate, beautiful, strong woman at my side. I will rule as I should have ruled Portaceae. A pleasure not caused by Lyta’s hand courses through my veins at the thought of having power, of having a say in how a kingdom is ruled, to have the respect of the people as Minos does. The thrill of finding what I’ve never before admitted I want surges to my groin.

Lyta mounts me. As she rotates her hips, the bells in her hair jingle in time with my thrusts. Her moans of pleasure repeat several times. When my moment comes, I raise up clutching her to me, our cries echoing in the small chamber. As we struggle to catch our breath, I’m torn between never wanting to give up this moment, never wanting to pull our bodies apart, and the desire to rush out and start my new life.

Before I can decide, before Lyta disentangles her limbs from me, the small chamber fills with the noise of a horn’s call. Lyta jerks up. The bells, now tangled in her tousled hair, produce a hollow jangle. Another blare sounds and she hurries to the porthole.

“What in the name of Hades are they doing?” she shouts as we shrug into our tunics. I have no idea what could be happening, but seeing Lyta’s frantic mix of fear and annoyance puts me on edge. I’ve already encountered the horn’s call on our approach and know it alerts the warrior women to a threat. I hope two calls merely signal a warning or tell the women who escorted Lyta to the dock to fall back. I hope it means all is well and there will be no more calls from the damned instrument.

My hope is short-lived, killed by a third blare reverberating through the cabin. Lyta dashes for the cabin door. As I try to hold my queen back, try to keep her from running into danger, the Amazonian war cry races across the island, filling the area below decks with its urgency and making my gut clench with dread.

32

H
ERA

“They've taken her,” I yell when the lovers' cries ring out across the dock. “Hear that? He's killing her. She's crying for your help. Sound the alarm. Call the battle. Save the queen!”

A horn blasts three times and from all sides of me comes a
whoop
that drives fear even into my limbs. The women who escorted the whore move in closer to the boat. The groups at the front have bows drawn and aimed while the ranks behind them hold their weapons at the ready.

The bastard! To think I’d almost been fool enough to feel pity for him, to think he was worthy of the Solonship and my daughter. With this betrayal he has proven himself no better than his rutting father.

When Herc and the whore emerge above decks, the sight of her tunic flapping in the wind with no belt and no bodice to hold it down, sears a raging anger through me.

“He's raped her, stolen the belt of the Amazonians,” I shout.

The women bellow another loud
whoop
and the first row of archers shoot their arrows. The moment they've fired, they drop down and the second row steps forward.

Herc shouts to get the boat underway while trying to shield Lyta with the lion’s pelt. As a small man and Iolalus haul in the gangplank and a blonde man snaps the sails into action, the whore queen wriggles from Herc's grasp. He starts after her holding out the pelt for her to take. She is too lost in trying to command her women to accept his offer. In a desperate move, Herc flings the pelt over her shoulders.

“Shoot,” I command. Although I cannot kill him myself, I can ensure enough arrows volley his way to make escape impossible. His foolishness in draping the pelt over Lyta instead of himself will spell his doom. “He’s trying to escape. Get him before he takes her away.”

The ship has already begun drifting out to sea, but the second tier of archers is ready. The women aim their arrows to the sky, release their bow strings as one, and a
whoosh
of steel, wood, and feather fill the air as the arrows make an arc across the sky so dense it’s like a thundercloud passing over the sun.

Shouts come from the boat and Herc tries to pull Lyta. She yells pointlessly for her warriors to cease fire from under the cover of the lion’s pelt. The sails billow out, catching the wind and whipping it over the deck of the vessel. Iolalus’s red hair waves like a flame and Lyta’s protective cloak is blown off. Before it can fly into the sea, Herc dashes to the garment and clutches it around his neck.

The arrows reach their zenith, seem to hang in midair for a heartbeat and then rush down heading directly to the ship. The women's aim is so precise they've been able to calculate in an instant where the boat will be when the arrows take their downward arc. On the descent, the arrows pick up speed whistling down, ripping through sail, landing on the floor of the deck, piercing and killing one of the crew. I suppress a laugh as one of the pointed heads delivers an arrow’s shaft straight through the queen’s jiggling breasts. Herc drops to his knees huddling over her body. Under the lion’s pelt he’s immune to the arrows that now bounce off him. I curse myself for ever sending him after that beast.

When the volley ceases, he rises up from the body, faces the shore, and roars with anger from under his lion’s pelt.

Although the Amazonian queen’s death is not the one I had hoped for, I do earn some satisfaction at watching the bastard suffer for making a fool of me and my daughter. How had both of us been stupid enough to believe in a man’s love? As his agony echoes across the bay, I melt back into the crowd of wailing women, tilting my face away from them to disguise the rueful smile curving across my lips.

33

H
ERC

My head spins as if the boat has been sucked into a whirlpool. I crash hard on my knees beside Lyta, driving splinters of wood from the deck into my skin.

Not another one.

Why? Why hadn't she stayed under the pelt? It could have saved her. I tried to save her. I could have remained in Amazonia, I could have ruled a kingdom, I could have been loved if only I could have protected this one person.