The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles

by Tammie Painter

  “They’ve come to clean the stables,” the old man says haughtily.

  “Good luck with that,” the younger man scoffs with a grin on his face. “What sort of payment do you expect?”

  “You have horses in the stables. I’d like to take a few.”

  “Take what you want,” the old man says. “They’re nothing but trouble those creatures.” He pauses and scans us with a calculating expression. “But you only get payment if you clean the stables of all the muck. Inside and out.” He lets out a cackle that grates on my nerves. The dog joins in with yipping howls.

  The man’s son looks uneasy. “Father, go inside.” The old man flicks a dismissive wave at us and shoos the dog in the house before slamming the door behind him. “This way.”

  The son leads us around the side of the house to a shed. “Shovels and other tools are in here, but you won’t be able to do this. No one has. For years Father offered free land, free water, and no one has been able to make a dent in the filth. By the time I was old enough to try, everyone was gone and I gave up my efforts after a year or two. It’s impossible. It just keeps coming.” He slaps the side of the shed in frustration, but gives us an agreeable smile. “Good luck, though.”

  I peer inside the shed. Not seeing what I’m after, I ask, “Do you have a sledgehammer?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the man says with a laugh. “But you can’t bludgeon the things to death. They’re immortal. Can you believe it? A gift from that damned Hera. That’s right. Damn you, you menacing wench of a goddess.” He shakes a fist at the sky, then looks back to us with a satisfied grin on his face. “It’s the only way they can survive in their own filth. Any other animal would be dead of disease. Not these foul steeds. But if you want to take some frustrations out when those shovels get you nowhere, sledgehammers are just there on the far wall.”

  He indicates the spot he means, then leaves us to gather our tools.

  “Are you planning on bludgeoning them?” Iolalus asks.

  “Not quite. Let’s get to work.”

  Iolalus grabs a shovel from the shed whose walls and shelves are littered with tools. He then starts down the hill toward the stables.

  “Where are you off to?” I ask.

  “Stables. Down there. Remember? The things we need to clean to keep from being buried alive. Living,” he says with a shrug, “it’s a nasty habit I’ve gotten used to.”

  “We’re not going to work down there.” I step over scythes and rakes to get to the back of the shed. The first sledgehammer I select is a light, flimsy thing, but the second has a sturdy, balanced heft to it. “Put that down and follow me.”

  We leave our bags and weapons in the shed and trudge further up the hill to the water tanks. Leaving the sledgehammer with Iolalus, I climb up the ladder fixed onto the outer wall of the largest of the tanks. At the top, I position myself to look directly down the hill to the stables. From the foot of hill spreads a brown lake of horse filth. The muck is so deep it nearly covers the roof of one of the farm houses beyond Augeus’s property.

  “Place the hammer directly below where I stand,” I shout down to Iolalus. “Just rest it up against the side.”

  Iolalus, looking tiny from the height of the tank, does as I ask and I climb back down.

  “Stand well back,” I say.

  Iolalus moves back and, standing with the right side of my body angled toward the tank, I lift the hammer up over my left shoulder. With every muscle of my upper body, I whip the hammer around, slamming it into the tank as near to the ground as possible.

  The paint chips away, but the swing hasn’t made a single crack in the thick wall.

  “He’s going to curse you to the Chasm of Hades for doing this,” Iolalus says peering around from his position. “Shouldn’t we get the horses out?”

  “Cousin,” I say just as the breeze shifts sending a waft of putrid air into my face, “this is the Chasm. And I would remove them if they were mortal, but if they’ve survived their own filth for this long, a little water won’t hurt them.”

  I grunt and ready the hammer again. Using the full force of my body, I whirl around smashing the tool into the same spot where the paint has chipped. A satisfied smile crosses my face when I notice a hairline crack running through the bare spot on the tank’s wall. I set down the hammer to loosen my muscles and catch my breath to prepare for the next swing.

  My breath recovered, I wipe my hands and lift the hammer again. A grunt hurls from my throat as I swing around again.

  The wall spills a few crumbles of concrete and the crack deepens, but I’ve seen worse coming from the mortar work on the buildings of Portaceae City.

  I inhale deeply, shift my shoulders and let all tension go from my back. Then, tensing as tightly as I can, I swing up nearly sending the sledgehammer into my own spine before forcing it back around in a whooshing arc.

  The wall explodes in a flurry of stone. I drop the hammer and grab hold of the ladder as a torrent of water gushes forth. The pressure behind the hole bursts apart the crack sending a full river of water stampeding down the side of the hill. It slams into the stable, swirling around the structure as horses burst into a cacophony of panicked whinnies. The piles around the stable are swept away and spread out into the fields beyond. Each moment the water flows through the stables, the run off becomes clearer.

  As the tank dribbles its last rivulet, Iolalus and I hurry down the hill staying clear of the sodden swath the water has created. Inside, the stables are wet but clean. With a pair of push brooms, we sweep out the water leaving behind a marble floor that gleams with a white sheen.

  “They’re beautiful,” Iolalus says looking in the stalls at the disgruntled horses.

  We pull the animals out one by one and replace their bedding with clean, dry hay from the high loft of the stable. They truly are gorgeous animals that must be from Astorian stock. Only the people of Poseidon’s polis can breed horses so fine. We walk back and forth having a terrible time deciding which to keep for ourselves.

  I spot a graceful mare of pure white with a mane that looks as if silver strands have been woven through. Its eyes are a mix of green and gold. The animal, now mollified that she is clean and dry, nuzzles my hand tempting me to choose her, but it’s a well-muscled, chestnut stallion that suits me best. Iolalus settles on a nimble, black steed that shines like obsidian.

  We leave the stables and head back up the hill with the setting sun at our backs. Once to the top, the old man and his dog storm out the main door. His face is flushed and wrinkled with fury.

  “My tank. We’ll die.”

  “You have several others,” I say. “Surely that’s more than enough water for two people. That shed is well-stocked with equipment and building supplies. Your son will be able to repair the tank before the autumn rains come.”

  “He’s right, Father,” the son says, poking his head over the old man’s shoulder. “It won’t take long and with the smell gone, the people will come back. Now let them inside to have some refreshments. We’ve been terrible hosts.”

  The old man steps aside but both he and his dog scowl at me and Iolalus as we pass into the house. We seat ourselves at a wide oak table and the son places two large tankards of beer in front of us.

  “I brew it myself. The hop plants have gone wild below the hill and no one is willing to come harvest them.”

  “That should change,” I say taking a drink of the deliciously bitter brew. “I’m Herc and this is my cousin Iolalus.”

  “Phylos.” The younger man holds out his hand to me and then to Iolalus to shake. “And that’s my father, Stephos Augeus.”

  Some vague memory comes to my head. Of course, I know the name from his being governor of the Augea region, but something else nags at me. Something familiar in the old man’s face I hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “Why do I know that name? Beside your position here, that is.”

  “My aunt, my father’s sister, worked as a midwife in Portaceae,” the s
on offers.

  “Yes,” I clap my hand on the table and the dog gives a sharp bark. “How could I have not realized? You have her eyes, the same shaped face. She was a close friend of my mother’s. She’d give me sweets as a child. Your Aunt Agalia saw me into this world.”

  “Yes, well,” Stephos interrupts, “as a reward for her seeing you safely birthed, Hera gave us the gift of these fine shit bearers. Beautiful animals, but foul. If all their shit isn’t cleared out within a day, they add to it tenfold. Can’t even set ‘em free. Oh, no, you can’t deny a present from the gods or you’ll be cursed ‘til the end of your days. It’s been a lovely gift to be sure.” His face appears as if his tankard of beer is ten times as bitter as ours.

  “You should be able to keep up with the chore now. When people return to the area, you can hire workers to keep the stalls cleaned.

  “Bah,” the old man blurts before slurping down another mouthful of ale.

  “We’re glad to take the chestnut and the black off your hands,” Iolalus says. “Stalls sixty-four and seventy-three.”

  “And the silver from nine,” I add.

  Just then someone pounds on the front door setting the bulldog into a round of protective barking.

  “Go see who it is,” Stephos orders his son. When Phylos leaves the room, Stephos fixes his rheumy eyes on us as he slides his son’s mug over toward him and hovers over its contents. Phylos returns with a sealed square of parchment. Stephos grabs for the letter, but Phylos holds it up out of the old man’s reach.

  “It’s not for you,” he says as he places the letter in front of me. On the front pressed into a dollop of red wax is an emblem of a peacock with a crown on its head. I break it open and frown at the contents.

  “That’s the seal of the Solon,” Stephos spits the words and the dog at his feet growls. “So, you work for him. In that case, you’re not getting any of my horses. I pay enough taxes, I’m not handing over good horse flesh too.”

  “We had a deal,” Iolalus argues.

  The old man huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s not as if I expected you to complete the job. Besides, one can’t give away a gift from the gods.”

  “Father, you made a promise. I witnessed it.” Phylos takes his cup from the scowling old man.

  “How dare you speak against me? I rule this land.”

  At this Phylos slams the tankard back onto the table sending ale sloshing up over its rim. “Enough. I’ve had enough of your pretend leadership. I manage the land more than you ever did. I keep it from completely overgrowing, I get us food. I ride into the city and risk my neck in the hills to try to win our farmers and tenants back. What do you do? Sit up here drinking my ale and griping about the state of things. If these men to whom we promised payment request it, we will honor that promise. Or do you have no honor left?”

  The old man refuses to look at his son. His lower lip juts out into a pout that closely resembles his bulldog’s underbite. He stands up and yanks our tankards off the table.

  “Fine, but they won’t have any more of our ale. We didn’t promise that.”

  I stand, taking the letter in my hand. “We’ve overstayed anyway. Thank you for your hospitality,” I say to Phylos as I shake his hand. To Stephos I offer a curt goodbye. He flicks his hand at us as if ridding himself of a persistent mosquito. Phylos walks us out.

  “I’m sorry for my father,” he says as we gather our things from beside the shed. The sun is already behind the hills to the west. I’m not looking forward to traveling in the dark, not on roads that I know to be populated with bandits. But, there will be no welcome stay in this house and I hope the horses will be fast enough to see us past any danger.

  “It’s forgotten,” I say. “I would ask a favor of you though.”

  “Anything.”

  “We need a letter saying we completed our work sent to the Solon. Somehow I don’t think your father will agree to writing it. Can you write the message and have it delivered by morning?” I then add, “Our lives depend on it.”

  Phylos notes the gravity of my tone and nods his head.

  “I sent the messenger down to the stables to refresh his horse. As it’s too late to put a lone boy on the Osterian Road, he’ll stay the night in our old servants’ quarters. I’ll ensure he departs at dawn with my message in his hand. Now, shall we go get your horses?”

  “But why shouldn’t we take the message? Aren’t we heading back to Portaceae City?” Iolalus asks as we follow Phylos down the hill.

  “It appears not,” I say holding up the letter.

  17

  IOLALUS

  “Not another one,” I say. I had hoped we’d be back to the House of Hera tonight, or at least by early morning. While Herc and Iole had been away, Maxinia described to me the menu the kitchen had planned for their own festivities during Eury’s celebration days and I’ve been craving roast chicken, herb-infused wild rice, and late summer strawberry pie ever since we left the city. With another task thrust upon us, I know I’ll be stuck with stale rolls and hard cheese, both of which have probably taken on the scent of horse dung by now.

  “I’m afraid so. He wants us to take care of the Malion Swamp birds.”

  “That’s half a day from here,” I complain.

  Phylos finds the messenger by a water trough and tells him where he can leave his horse and which rooms he can stay in up at the house. Inside the stables there’s still a slight odor, but after a few dry days I’m certain it will clear out.

  “What are these birds?” Phylos asks as he selects three bridles from the tack room. Everything is still wet and I wonder if we should help Phylos set the rest of the tack outside to dry.

  “Menaces,” Herc says. “They ravage crops whenever the people of the Malion District manage to plant them. The creatures don’t eat any of the plants, they just tear them up and create a mess.”

  “But that’s the least of the trouble they cause,” I continue. “They have an insatiable appetite for flesh, and they don’t kill outright. Instead, they attack one by one nipping at their victim until it dies. The birds have a taste for livestock, but prefer children.” Herc’s face twists into a grimace and I curse myself for the slip up.

  “It’s so bad that the people living in their range only come out at night when the birds nest on an island in the swamp,” Herc adds.

  “That’s awful,” Phylos says.

  “They were said to be pets of Ares. Sent here decades ago when Portaceae was fighting the Cedonians, but they’ve since turned feral which has only compounded their vicious nature.”

  “You may work for the Solon, but I don’t think he favors you,” Phylos says as we walk amongst the stalls of subdued horses. We fit the bridles onto our chosen steeds and lead them out to the mounting area. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have saddles to spare.”

  “It’s alright. We grew up riding bareback,” I say.

  As Herc and I are about to swing up onto our new mounts, Phylos says, “You could sleep in the stables tonight. In fact, I strongly advise it. There’s still light, but twilight is prime time for the thieves that roam like a plague through this area. Unfortunately, the centaurs can’t be everywhere.”

  I look to Herc. The idea of riding in the dark doesn’t appeal to me, despite the speed I’m certain our new horses can sustain. With bandits, speed isn’t the issue, not in the low light of evening. We may be able to outrun the thieves, but one wrong move and we could easily be driven into a hidden trap.

  “I think we should stay, Herc. It’s a long ride that won’t go any faster by night.”

  Herc looks to Phylos. “You’re certain you don’t mind?”

  “My father would mind but he need not know. Once he’s snoring in bed, I’ll bring down some food and ale.”

  Thankfully, Herc accepts the offer. We lead the horses back to their stalls, remove their tack, then lay it out to dry. Phylos indicates an empty stall at the far end of the stables where we can spend the night. When he leaves us, we
busy ourselves with laying out the rest of the tack to keep the moisture from wasting it away.

  A few hours later, Phylos returns with a plate of thick-sliced bread, strong white cheese, and two sausages that smell of spicy peppers. Along with the food, he leaves us a bottle of ale that is nearly as large as the head of the lion in Nemea. Herc and I enjoy the food and the bottle’s contents. After that I can only remember laughing my way through some silly story Odysseus had told me, teasing Herc about Iole, being told to shut up, then falling into a heavy, drunken slumber in the straw of our stall.

  By the time we wake the next day, the sun has already climbed to its midday height. I shake my cousin awake much to his annoyance. When he realizes the hour, he curses and then clutches his head at the noise of his own voice.

  “It’s no matter,” I tell him as he plops back into the straw. “We can’t approach the swamps in the daytime anyway. By leaving this late, we’ll be able to travel during the day and get to the swamps at sunset. That will give us time to survey the area, prepare ourselves, rest as much as we can, and then wait for them to come out at dawn. As long as one of us keeps watch during the night, we should be safe.”

  As we’re fitting the dry bridles onto the horses Phylos comes down with more bread slathered in honey.

  “This should help if your heads and bellies aren’t in fine shape this morning.”

  I thank him and gobble down the bread. Herc bites into his tentatively at first, but then quickly finishes the rest of the breakfast. With our thick heads, it’s slow work to get the horses into their bridles and reins. I’m not certain if my legs have enough spring in them, but surprise myself when I’m able to mount my horse in one leap. Still, the motion sends my stomach gurgling and my head swimming.

  “When you repair the tank install a release gate.” Herc speaks quietly as he advises Phylos. “In the future, you can raise the gate to clean the stables if things get out of hand.”

  “I should have thought of it myself. Good luck to you. The messenger was off at first light with news of your accomplishment.”

  “Many thanks,” Herc says. “Although I’m not certain if I’m thankful for your beer this morning.”