“Shut up, Iolalus.”
We dismount our horses. Iolalus unties the pelt as Iole approaches us. Her face glows in the dancing light of the flames.
“Herc, Iolalus, come we’ve kept dinner for you. And your things have arrived—they’re in your rooms.”
“I’d like to bathe first, if you don’t mind. And we have this.” I gesture to the pelt.
“The pelt. I wondered about it.” She rubs her hand over the lion skin that hangs over Iolalus’s arm. A stab of jealousy pierces my gut. “The whole city was chanting your name,” she says looking up at me. The flame of one of the courtyard’s torches glints off the gold flecks in her eyes and I can’t help but marvel at how they sparkle.
“Eury couldn’t have liked that,” Iolalus says. Iole shifts her gaze to him breaking the spell and bringing me back to myself.
“No, after the show he ranted to the engineers that the feed was to go only to his house and to switch his electricity back on. Turns out, the electrical lines to Eury’s villa shorted out during the initial switch. I don’t quite understand it all, but from now on the feed can only go to the arena. Eury is left in the dark.” Her voice carries a hint of humor at this notion.
“The pelt is a gift for the Herenes. Should we put it back here?” I ask turning to the work area behind the main complex.
Iole lets out a horrified gasp. I jerk around ready to fend off whatever has startled her.
“Your back!” She rushes to me, but I step away from her touch. Her hand lingers in the air a moment before she drops it to her side. Her face shows a mixture of concern and disappointment. “You’ve got blood seeping through your tunic. Didn’t you have it tended to?”
“There wasn’t time. I’ll wash the wounds in the bath.”
“No, you’re going straight to the medics.” Before I can avoid it, she grabs my arm and pulls me toward the hospital wing. I glance back to see Iolalus grinning at me.
11
IOLALUS
The hammer pounds nail after nail into the boards of my new home. My own home, one I designed and built, not one of the hovels the polis gives to vigiles. It’s on the site of my grandfather’s old home, in the heart of the city amongst the people. Bang, bang, bang and another nail drives in. From the distance someone yells at me.
“Iolalus, up!”
Standing in front of the frame of my new home, I can’t figure out why Herc is yelling at me in such an urgent, annoyed tone. The pounding continues even though there is no longer a hammer in my hand.
“Get up now!”
My home fades to fog as I groan my way out of my dream. My eyes open to see bright light streaming into my room.
Dear gods, how long have I slept?
Herc pounds again and I bolt up out of bed. Blood rushes to my head as I stagger to the door and yank it open.
“What?” I ask rubbing my eyes.
A woman’s gasp focuses my attention. Iole spins around turning her back to me. Herc throws me a scolding glare as I shrug an apology. How was I to know I needed to put on a tunic before answering?
“Get dressed and meet us in in the courtyard. We need to get ready. Or do you require more beauty sleep?”
“Give me five minutes.”
“Two,” Herc says as he and Iole head toward the staircase at the end of the hall. I dress in a rush and snatch up my sword, club, dagger, bow, and quiver of arrows, then dash down to join them.
Although the approaching bank of clouds makes it seem risky weather for dining in the courtyard, a breakfast of thick toast and scrambled eggs has been laid out alongside a platter of fruit and cheese. Herc sits with Iole on a curved metal bench, but not close enough to seem as if they are anything more than two people waiting for a shared acquaintance. Herc’s own collection of weapons rests beside him.
“So, what now? Train a man-eating dog?” I ask as I fill a cup with the fragrant tea the Herenes brew and pile a plate with food. Herc gives a heavy sigh. “A giant, man-eating dog?”
Herc hands me a piece of paper. “This was in the post slot. Apparently our cousin can’t be bothered to come to us in person.”
I take a mouthful of buttered toast before setting down my plate to read the letter. By the second sentence I’ve stopped chewing. When I finish the note, I swallow the lump of bread that has turned dry in my mouth and have to read the words again to be certain my sleep-fogged mind isn’t still dreaming.
“He’s kidding, right?” I ask.
“I doubt it. Have you ever known Eury to joke?”
“The hydra? The nine-gods-be-damned-headed water serpent of the Lerna District? No one can kill that thing. I mean, why would you want to? She’s no trouble any longer. No one lives near her swamp and Granddad rerouted the waterways so boats don’t have to pass through there. Do you remember how scared I was of swimming as a kid?”
I laugh at the memory and even the corners of Herc’s mouth turn up slightly. I grab my plate and gulp down my mound of eggs.
“Yes, you thought every body of water was home to a nine-headed monster.”
The moment I set down my empty plate and tip back the rest of my tea, one of the acolytes begins clearing the breakfast dishes. I barely manage to whisk two more thick slices of buttered toast from the tray before the efficient woman takes it away.
“Iole, do you agree it’s cruel that a young boy should hear daily reports of how many people had been killed by this territorial demon?” I ask. As we head back to the stables, I finish off both slices of bread.
She agrees, then adds, “But I don’t understand this task. We learned to live with her. This isn’t some ravenous lion with a taste for people.”
“The only idiots who get killed by Old Lerna now are stupid teenagers trying to prove themselves brave by taunting the poor thing. She’s quite useful for weeding out Portaceae’s morons,” I say brushing the buttery crumbs from my hands.
“You saw the instructions. ‘By tomorrow, bring back as much blood as you can carry,’” Herc says.
“Why?” I ask. I have more to add to the question, but the words stick in my throat and I stop in my tracks when I see what waits for us in front of the stables. “Chariots?” I blurt as I step over to brush my hand across one of the wheels in awed wonder. The blonde boy, Cy, has two horses out and is attaching a chariot to one while the other waits its turn. On the floor of one chariot is a pile of water skins. “And skins?”
“You’ll need them to carry the blood,” Iole says.
Cy is capable with the animals and keeps asking for their patience, but it’s plain he doesn’t have the skills or the strength just yet to hook up the vehicles properly. I help the boy with the chariot he’s working on as Herc tends to the other.
“Lerna’s blood is poisonous,” Iole says as she strokes the head of the horse Herc is working with. “I think Eury is planning to sell the blood to the Areans. They’ve been itching for war again. With weapons tipped in the serpent’s blood, no one will stand a chance against them in battle.”
“It’s bad policy to mettle in the affairs of other city-states, especially the Areans,” I say running the long reins from the horse’s head to the platform of the chariot. “Who’s to say the day they get the blood, they won’t use it against Portaceae?”
“We don’t have much of a choice. It’s either get the blood or—I’m sorry I got you involved in this.” Herc hangs his head low as he busies himself with checking over his horse’s harness again.
“You didn’t get me involved,” I insist. “I volunteered. Besides, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I clap him on the back. Herc gives a light wince, but nothing more.
“His wounds,” Iole warns.
“They’re fine. I heal quickly,” Herc says.
“But they—”
“Your Herene medics are quite skilled,” he says throwing his quiver of arrows onto his back and stepping into his chariot. He gives his horse a light flick of the reins and cuts a tight circle to head for the courtyard. I follow
after him in my own chariot and we ride out of the House of Hera. Looking back, I give Iole a final wave goodbye.
“The good news about being assigned this task is it means Eury’s servant gave him the money,” I say to Herc the moment we maneuver the chariots through the Peacock Gate and onto the Hera Way. After only a block, people begin flocking from other streets to see Herc and me on our chariots. I‘m glad for the slowing as it gives me time to get used to the long, cumbersome reins. After a few blocks I get the feel for their weight and am ready to give my horse some slack. Cheers of praise and good luck hum through the crowd, but Herc ignores them.
“How is that good?” Herc asks.
“I thought the guy might run off with it and we’d be sent under after only one task.” My chariot hits a hole in the road. The vehicle tilts, but bounces back to right just as quickly. I widen my stance to stay better balanced.
“Glad you can see the bright side of this. Let’s just hope it goes as quickly as the lion.”
“In a hurry to get back to someone?”
“Shut up, Iolalus.”
I don’t know what kind of establishment Iole is running at the House of Hera, but her horses and chariots are built for the long distance races Portaceae once held. I have vague memories of attending the races as a boy, but not like the older people of the polis. They can still recount moment by moment the excitement of the races in which each lap was a battle. A single race lasted twelve laps at break neck speeds around the mile-long track on which riders fought for the best position to clear the hairpin turns. It was as much a test of the horses’ speed as the riders’ bravado.
Once Eury took the Solonship, it wasn’t long before the track fell into disrepair and the pounding of hooves drove ruts and holes into the surface that was supposed to be smoothed after every race. When race after race saw champion Astorian horses bred by Poseidon himself breaking legs or suffering career-ending injuries, the horse owners abandoned the lame steeds and refused to bring their mounts to any race in Portaceae.
These Herene horses could be those abandoned steeds or at least their offspring. Once outside the city gates, we let them fly and they never flag over the journey north. They even pull against the reins to go faster. When we dare to let them set their own pace, the chariots glide over the road like a sleek boat on a placid lake. Just as racing chariots were designed to absorb shock and reduce the strain on the driver, so are the ones Herc and I have our feet planted on—they may even be the same chariots that once whipped around Portaceae City’s racetrack. As I lean into the padding along the chariot’s front edge, I doubt even Eury’s carriage provides a more comfortable or more exhilarating ride.
Thanks to its lack of use, the Lerna Road hasn’t been rutted by the hooves of horses or the wheels of carts and remains in good enough condition to allow the horses to speed along. We’re making excellent time, but the perfection of the morning is ruined by low clouds settling down into a thin fog. The moisture and wind race over me and chill my skin. When an uncontrollable shivering takes hold, I’m forced to slow my horse and wrap my cloak tight around my shoulders. Herc, who has his chariot alongside mine, also slows.
I have only vague memories of a time when the Lerna District was populated and those memories may only have been formed from tales my grandfather told me about the area. As with other poli, Portaceae is divided into districts such as Nemea to the east, Augea to the south, and the now-defunct Lerna to the north. The Solon cannot be expected to be everywhere at once—especially not a Solon as incapable at the job as Eury—so each district has a governor who manages the land, collects rents from tenants, and serves as judge.
My grandfather had made a point to tour his polis once each year, sometimes twice. Each visit to the Lerna District added to his realization that the district could not continue. The water monster was driving residents, farmers, and merchants from the area. On top of desirable people leaving, bounties on the monster’s head attracted too many undesirables who developed their own version of the law and did not hunt fairly. They poisoned the lake and fashioned homemade grenades that destroyed all the wetland fauna except the monster they were after—the monster that ended up being given the name of the dying district. Angered over their lack of success, the bounty hunters turned on each other and those few people still residing in the district.
With every attack on her home, Lerna became meaner. With the easy pickings of men distracted by brawling one another, she grew larger and stronger than ever before. Once the poachers were gone, Lerna turned to devouring the travelers and traders trying to pass through the district on their way to Portaceae City. The governor pleaded with my grandfather saying the district was impossible to manage, the swampy land was good for little, and Lerna had clearly staked her claim. Reluctantly, my grandfather agreed, rehoused those who still lived in the area, and began a public works project so travelers would no longer have to pass through the district.
Lerna was a legend in herself. When people still traveled to Portaceae, the two best-selling souvenir postcards they purchased were those featuring drawings of the Herene peacocks and those sporting a rendering of Lerna. She is a part of Portaceae’s identity, but for Herc and me to survive, this day will have to be her last.
The sun, visible only as a gauzy spot of yellow through the low clouds, is already past its midday height when the worn roadside sign that warns travelers to go no further comes into view. With his horse hobbled in the field beyond the muck of the swamp, Altair warms himself near a fire he’s built on the road. When he sees us, he picks up his camera and trains it on us.
“Do you think Iole likes watching you in that chariot?” I ask.
“Iole is a Herene. She has a vow of chastity to uphold. Their virginity protects the polis.”
“From the state of Portaceae, I think one or two of the Herenes haven’t stuck to their vows. Besides, I don’t think Iole would mind risking the wrath of Hera for you.”
Herc tells me to shut up, but I don’t miss the twitch at the corners of his mouth as he tries to suppress a grin. We slow the horses to a stop.
“Gods be with you, Altair. How are your children?” Herc asks as he reaches for Altair’s hand and shakes it in greeting.
“And with you. They are well. Quite well. But my wife is feeling ill. Probably just some bad meat from the butcher.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask looking to the fire.
“Since early morning. Fog always gives me a chill. The road was the only dry place to build a fire.” He looks sheepishly between Herc and I probably worried that, as vigiles, we will insist he adhere to laws regarding campfires. “Should I put it out?” He clicks off the camera.
“No, it’s not as if anything in this swamp would burn anyway,” I say. Herc and I step out of the chariots. When I take my first step, I sway as if walking on the deck of ship caught in a storm. After being on the chariot, the ground feels like it’s still moving under me. Altair’s horse whinnies to ours as we work to release them from the chariots. Once the horses are hobbled and dining on dew-soaked grass, Herc and I gather our weapons and Altair follows after us.
The Lerna Road ends at the sign and as we continue beyond the warning, the grassy field changes over to tall reeds and the ground squishes under our feet. The horses’ nickering to one another echoes off a steep rock face, but other than their calls, the area is silent. Even at midday, the fog that gathers over the lake is thick enough to block most of the sun’s warmth.
“She’s been in there since I arrived,” Altair says pointing to a deep cave in the rock wall. “I’ve been checking the area out since I got here. The lake feeds into that cave. I’m not sure how far back the cavern goes, but you can see the size of it. The dikes have cut the lake off from the river just a bit north, but water has seeped into some of the lower areas to make sloughs. The sloughs and the rock face are catching this fog and making it stick.”
“And Lerna’s in the cave, you’re sure?” Herc asks.
&n
bsp; “I could see the outline of something in there. It could be Lerna, it could be a boulder, but whatever it is hasn’t stirred and there’s been no movement to ripple the water.”
“Maybe she’s dead already,” I say.
“We don’t have time to find out. We need to get her out of there.”
Herc touches his chest, feeling for his vigile charm out of habit. All vigiles develop this ritual for good luck and, perhaps, for comfort. I’ve seen Herc do it more than once since giving up his charm and each time he drops his hand and shakes his head as if chastising himself for the superstitious gesture. He slips his bow from his shoulder and strides back to the fire.
“You may want to start filming,” I say as my hand drifts to my own chest and touches both the charms I now wear—Herc’s larger peacock with its clutch of a dozen arrows and my smaller peacock that grasps ten arrows. Altair hoists his camera onto his shoulder and clicks a button.
From his quiver, Herc selects several arrows with a black muck coating the spot between the shaft and the head. We don’t use this type of arrow often as vigiles—part of our job being to put out fires, not start them—but we do keep them on hand for Portaceae’s Founding Day. The arrows are dipped into a bonfire and then shot up into the air. With hundreds of vigiles doing it, the flaming arrows create a waterfall of fire that arcs into the river. Once I’d gotten old enough to get over my fear of swimming, I would go back the day after Founding Day to retrieve as many arrows as I could from the water. It was one of the few things I could do to impress Herc who has always been a poor swimmer.
Herc dips an arrow into the flames, notches it, aims for a fraction of a second and fires. Five more flaming arrows fly off in a span of only a moment. Each arrow lands in the cave, lighting the interior and hitting what is clearly not a boulder. Lerna, her moss-green hide glowing under the burning heads of the arrows, lets out a shrill call like the sound of a thousand hawks keening at once.
Lerna shows no sign of her age as she springs from her lair into the pool of the lake. She’s massive. Her body could house our three horses and the chariots with room to spare. She has no legs, but if rumors are to be believed, she can slither her body faster than a centaur can run. The end of her fat tail is tipped in rattles, which she shakes above the water line as she lashes her body back and forth. There’s no doubt the sound is a warning to back off.
The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles Page 11
