The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles

by Tammie Painter

  What is going on? The register records all formal agreements—marriages, property sales, wills, work contracts. Any official act of the polis goes into the register and it’s one of the Herenes many duties to keep Portaceae’s register protected and up to date. What agreement can Eury possibly want to make with his cousin who he sentenced only last evening?

  “You stay here,” he says to Iolalus.

  “Agrees to what?” I ask as Eury climbs the stairs to the temple. I jog up after him and Herc, who could just as easily have fled, follows after us taking the steps in six large strides.

  Inside the temple, the columns make shadows over Hera’s statue as the sun continues burning off the morning cloud cover on its ascent. Eury stands in the center of the temple, his back to the statue of Portaceae’s patron goddess.

  “Agrees to what?” I ask again, my voice echoing off the vaulted marble ceiling.

  “A chance at life.” The Solon smirks in a way that sets me on edge. I already know Eury isn’t to be trusted with things I care about.

  “But I’ve been convicted,” Herc says keeping his voice low. “You sentenced me yourself.”

  “Cousin, I know,” Eury says with feigned apology. “I looked into it, though. Herene, maybe you should have done your job before coming here and examined the law. You nearly killed this man.” My nerves bristle. If anything could have saved Herc Dion, I would have done it. How dare this man, this pompous, corrupt excuse for a Solon say I don’t know my job? Before I can respond to his insult, he continues. “There is another way to repay your, shall we say, indiscretion.”

  “Indiscretion? I killed my family. I killed them with my own hands. Their blood is still embedded under my nails. Sergio, Sofia, Cassandra.” Herc raises his hands and thrusts them at his cousin, pushing them closer with each name. By the final name, his face is wrenched in agony. He drops his hands and turns his back on us.

  So that’s why he is here. Maxinia had only said he’d been convicted of blood crime, but would give no details. If I hadn’t heard it from his own lips, I wouldn’t have believed it. Not him, not the man who risked his life for mine. For my whole family.

  “I know what you did,” Eury says, “and it disgusts me. But the laws state that you can work for the polis to atone for your crime.”

  “Tributes are for thieves, not for blood crimers,” Herc says, his back still turned away from us.

  “But you’re wrong. Nowhere in the law does it state that blood crimers such as yourself can’t be included in the tribute system. You would be doing Portaceae a great favor. You can do things for the polis that no one else can.”

  While I don’t want Herc to die, regardless of what he’s done, I do not trust Eury.

  Herc faces us. “One task cannot undo what I’ve done.” The pain in his voice twists my belly in pity for him. This is not a man who could kill his children.

  “I never said it would be a single task. Ten tasks. You will perform ten tasks in the name of Portaceae.” Eury stalks a slow circle around us as he speaks. I move in closer to Herc, touching him on the arm, hoping to bring some comfort. He looks down to me, questioning me with his eyes. I shake my head indicating I have no idea what Eury is up to. “As you know, the polis is in desperate financial need. The tasks will earn us money, bring us treasures Osterians from the other eleven poli will want to see, and bring us esteem. The labors will restore some of our former glory. It will be a new beginning for Portaceae. But don’t be mistaken, these labors will be dangerous. This isn’t a simple thief’s tribute of picking up litter or helping lay cobblestones. At each trial your life will be at risk.”

  “I would rather die fighting for Portaceae than in that box,” Herc says.

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.” Eury stops in front of us. “But the box is still in play. If you’re unable to finish a task or can’t complete it in the time I command it be done, you will be subject to the original punishment. Understood?”

  Herc gives a single nod.

  “And if he completes them?” I ask. All aspects of this agreement need to be made clear. I don’t want Eury to make up new rules at the end saying Herc will still be sent under.

  Eury’s cocky expression falls.

  He’s already decided Herc won’t finish paying the tributes, I realize with sudden clarity.

  “I, that is, then the gods will have made their judgment I should think. Do you agree or not?” he asks Herc impatiently.

  “If I can do something to benefit Portaceae, then of course I agree.”

  “Good.” Eury smacks his hands together and the sound snaps through the temple. “The law states if a person paying tribute should need an assistant, the individual of your choice may join you.”

  The slap of leather sandals echoes through the temple. Iolalus dashes to the side of Herc.

  “Me. Herc, choose me. You know we work well together. You trained me. Who else can match you stride for stride?”

  Herc shakes his head, his face as pained as when he’d been reciting his children’s names, as pale as when he’d climbed from the vault. Beyond the temple’s steps, the guards are grunting the vault’s lid back into place. The leaden clang makes Herc cringe his shoulders.

  “No, no, Iolalus, I won’t risk it. I can do this alone. I won’t have anyone risk themselves for me. I don’t deserve it. If you were hurt, or died—”

  “No matter,” Eury interrupts. “Are you volunteering?”

  “Yes,” Iolalus blurts before Herc can stop him. Herc drops his face into his hands, shaking his head in dismay.

  “There, he has volunteered. The contract is sealed. Am I not right, Herene?”

  Unfortunately, he is. If a person volunteers to aid a tribute, the gift of help can’t be refused. Iolalus has locked his fate to Herc’s.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Yes, Excellency, if you don’t mind. You have witnessed it and you will go off to your little enclosure and record it.” To Herc and Iolalus he says, “The details of the first task will be delivered to you in the morning.” He claps his hands together again. “I believe we’re done here. Guards,” he shouts, “come take this blood crimer back to his cell.”

  The guards run up, but halt at the top of the steps uncertain of stepping onto the temple floor, the realm of the gods, without being invited. Eury won’t let them get away with their show of respect for long.

  “No, we’re not done, Excellency,” I say as Eury starts to speak. He turns, shooting me a scorching glare. “You’ve forgotten that because tributes are under the watch of the gods, they must be quartered in the House of Hera while they complete their tasks. By law, both Herc and Iolalus must stay in the House of Hera. Certainly Your Excellency must have read that when coming up with this noble plan to save his cousin and Portaceae.”

  Eury clenches and unclenches his jaw as if chewing on a stringy piece of meat. He pinches his lips so tight they whiten to the color of bone. After several moments, he huffs and says, “Of course I knew that.” He storms away, stopping just before he reaches the steps.

  “Oh, and cousins,” he says turning back to us like he’s just remembered something. “Don’t forget that according to the law, a volunteer faces the same punishment as the convicted if a tribute’s task can’t be completed.”

  Herc races across the vast temple, pulling up short of Eury and grabbing the front of his gold-trimmed toga.

  “How dare you? How dare you allow him to volunteer?”

  “Get your hands off me or you will end up in that box. And since the first task will be considered a failure—” He glances past Herc to Iolalus.

  The guards swarm into the temple, closing in on Herc to protect their master.

  “Out,” I order. “You have no business in here. Hercules Dion, you will do nothing in this temple to shame the gods.”

  Herc holds Eury for one moment longer, then lets him go as if flicking foul water off his hands. He shrugs the guards’ hands off his arm.

  “No, I won’t,�
� Herc says. The muscles of his jaw twitch with tension. “He’s corrupted this place enough for one day.”

  6

  EURY

  Baruch holds the door of the carriage open as I scuttle toward my safety zone. My nerves still jangle from Herc's attack causing me to miss the step. Baruch catches me as I stumble forward.

  “Leave me,” I say shoving him away. I haul myself into the plush leather seat, slam the door behind me, and whip the curtains shut. It isn't until the carriage is rolling along and my fear fizzles that it dawns on me how perfectly the morning has gone.

  A grin creeps up my cheeks, morphs uncontrollably into a broad smile, then turns into a fit of laughter that rocks me so hard I worry the carriage might tip over.

  Perhaps I shouldn't dismiss the gods so readily. They let that red-headed fool stumble head first into my trap. I had hoped Herc would choose our cousin, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t just try to complete the tasks alone. Iolalus volunteering is a coup so delightful I almost feel my hangover melting away. After all, I’m no idiot. I know if the vigiles have thought to put Herc in my place, it won’t take long for their muscle-filled heads to rally behind Iolalus once the great Hero of Hestia dies in my service. Now, I will be rid of them both in one go and all talk of a coup will be at an end.

  And there is no way I will allow them to finish every task and come out alive. Osteria has enough dangers and I have enough wit to ensure that. With Hera having already done me the favor of getting rid of Herc's sons, once my cousins are out of the way I will be Nikos’s only living male heir and there will be no threat to my position left in all of Portaceae. Gods, what a beautiful morning.

  A fit of laughter hits me again. The carriage dips into a rut in the road, jolting me up out of my seat and knocking my head into the ceiling. I slam my fist against the offending surface which only makes my hand throb as vigorously as my head. Slumping back in the seat, I peek out the curtain. Outside, the grumpy faces of people trudging to their morning duties fire harsh glances at me. I flick the curtain shut again.

  Why do the Portaceans throw such an ungrateful attitude toward me? They act as if they expected my grandfather to reappear when I took power. A ridiculous notion if there ever was one. I’ve been groomed for my position since a child. I’ve cultured fine tastes. I refuse to live as he did, so ordinarily. He had actually chosen to live in the heart of the city rather than with Portaceae’s upper crust on the Solonian Hill that perches above the mess of Portaceae City. My mother scoffed every Godsday when we had to descend from our own home on the hill into the heart of the city to pay him a visit. It was from her I learned a leader should show he was better, that he was above his people. As Solon, I have to be an example of what they should strive for.

  And truly, what do they have to complain about? I don't tax them heavily. I don't rule with an iron hand. And yet they gripe. What difference does it make if roads are in poor condition when all the commoners either walk or ride horses as they go about their business? I’m the one who suffers on Portaceae’s rutted and damaged roads. The very thought makes my head throb anew.

  From the basket the kitchen servants have placed in the carriage, I grab an orange that has been imported at great cost from the Califf Lands because Adneta once declared them her favorite fruit in all the world. I dig my nails into the skin sending up a puff of citrus oil and filling the interior with the luxurious scent.

  Do the people think the public buildings, the houses Portaceae provides for them, or the running water system can be repaired without raising taxes? It's not as if I’m the one causing the earthquakes. It’s not as if I’m the one who let the farmlands go fallow. It’s not I who tell tenants to abandon their farms and the wealthy to abandon Portaceae. With only a trickle of tax money coming in from rents, crops, or estates, the budget is stretched thinner than a whore’s nightshirt.

  Don’t they see Hera is to blame for most of this? It’s her neglect, her obsession with her own hatred toward Herc that has left the land barren. I can’t make soil fertile; I can’t force tenants to farm when robbing travelers along the Osterian Road is far more profitable; and I can’t make the buildings in the city stand stable when all of Osteria seems plagued with earthquakes.

  There is simply no way I can be expected to find money for what they think needs to be done when at the mere mention of increasing the tax, I face weeks of criticism. If repairs are such a concern, why don’t they just rebuild these things on their own rather than wait for someone else to do it?

  Unfortunately, they do have someone else in mind. They always have. In my frustration at the thought, I grip the naked orange too tightly. The juice soaks my fingers. I wipe my hands down the front of my silk robes to dry them and the beak of the Solonian chain’s peacock emblem pierces a finger. The acidic juice sears into the wound and I chuck the offending fruit out the window.

  Even within the first year of my Solonship, undercurrents of whispers said that Herc should rule. After all, he saved that family, why wouldn’t he save the entire polis? Although the decline in Portaceae’s glory had started at Herc’s birth and continued for the final thirteen years of my grandfather’s rule, the people had managed to find a way to maintain the polis. Once my mother took the regency, her iron rule, her insistence on keeping us in high standards brought the wrath of the people against me.

  I lowered taxes to a pittance my first true year as Solon, the first year without my mother acting as regent. For what? To win their favor. The effort only backfired. I suppose I should blame my mother for diverting money from the city maintenance fund to refurbish the Solon’s villa. Although I have a splendid home that anyone can come admire from the edge of the property, its construction left the city with no money to keep up the water pumps and, one by one, they fell into an irreparable state. With horrid luck, the section of the city that went out first was also the one where a stray spark turned the entire area into a bonfire. I heard no end of ridicule for that one as if I had been the idiot who hadn’t tended to his coals. And when my cousin stepped in to save an entire neighborhood, well, I never regained favor in the people’s eyes. I could never block out the brightness of his deed.

  Until now. Now Herc has been caught in Hera’s pit and I will be certain he never climbs back out.

  The road changes from pitted to paved signaling we’re heading up the long drive to my villa. I pull back the curtains to let in some fresh air and my eyes instantly glance to the third floor of my home. A warm light emanates from it.

  Of course she would be here. Why should I have hoped otherwise?

  Once Baruch lets me out at the courtyard, I lumber my way up the staircases. Just for once I wish she would meet me on the ground floor instead of making me go through this sacrifice of sweat to join her. By the time I get to the third floor landing, my head throbs. The knock on my head in the carriage compounds the ache I woke with from last night’s revelry. The exponential pain puts me in no mood to deal with Hera’s quibbles. I shove the door open and even the goddess’s unearthly beauty doesn’t stir me from my annoyance.

  “I don’t like him residing with Iole,” Hera snaps before I can even greet her. I wonder if I ask, will she make my headache disappear. I doubt it. Hera rarely uses her powers to ease people’s suffering. I rub my temples as I cross the room.

  “It’s the law. We overlooked it. People paying tribute reside in the House of Hera.” I flop down in the chaise lounge ignoring her glare. “Besides, he won’t be living with her, just in the guest wing.”

  “He should be married. That’s the law too. Or have you overlooked that as well?”

  “He would be married if you hadn’t decided letting his wife die in childbirth would be a source of godly entertainment for you. Or was Meg just an accident? Do you only kill children?”

  “How dare you speak to me like that?”

  With a snap of her fingers, the chaise lounge disappears from under me. I drop to floor in a heap. I push myself up and make a show of brushin
g off my toga pretending nothing has happened. I’m walking on a thin line of luck and I know it. The perfection of the morning’s outcome and my head’s agony have put me in a brash mood.

  I had to know it would only be a matter of time before Hera would bring up Portaceae’s marriage law. After all, as goddess of marriage and family, it’s her law that she instituted soon after she became Portaceae’s patron goddess. Her reasoning was that men were more cooperative, more community-minded when married. With a straying husband such as hers, I couldn’t fathom where she came up with such a notion. Still, it did work to settle many men. Not all, but most were certainly less aggressive once married. Domestication some called it.

  The law states that if a man is still unwed by the time he reaches his twenty-fifth birthday and has no one in particular in mind, the polis chooses a wife for him. When a man becomes eligible, interested women put their names into a lottery. Ever resourceful when it comes to my own gain, I’ve found this system an excellent opportunity to accumulate a few extra drachars. Nothing is free after all and it appears women will pay dearly when a good prospect is nearing his wedding day. The woman who makes the biggest donation finds her name happens to be chosen on the wedding day. How can it not? After all, hers will be the only name written on the slips of paper in the selection box.

  Herc’s wife has been dead nearly eleven months. Men are allowed a period of grieving from the time of death until their next birthday comes around. So, according to Hera’s law, Herc will have to marry again within the month.

  “My apologies,” I offer. “It’s been a strange day and I was rude. But your own law states weddings take place on the man’s birthday, so he’ll just have to stay in the House of Hera another few weeks. Then, it will fall on my shoulders to find him a bride. Unless you have someone in mind.”

  As I have calculated, Hera’s vanity is appeased by my deference. Her cross expression softens.

  “I’ll be certain to find the right woman. Now, do you have an idea for your cousins’ first labor? If not, I have a suggestion.”