The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles

by Tammie Painter

  By now, the counter man has brought us three more bowls of food. I pull out a coin to pay, but Minos pushes it back. Apparently one of the benefits of being the ruler of Minoa is a bottomless bowl at this eatery. We eat in silence and I ponder on what Minos has said. It now seems obvious Eury is gaining wealth for himself, but does he know about taking power from the gods? He owes his position to the gods. They gave him the luck to be born first. Would he dare to even think of overpowering one of them?

  My stomach aches by the time we finish. I haven’t eaten so heartily for weeks, but Minos seems accustomed to large meals as he takes our bowls from us and scrapes them clean with his spoon.

  “I could eat all three of those pots in that counter. Did once, but I promised Yerni back there I wouldn’t do it again. Now,” he says standing up from the table, “old Frederic is yours, but you’ll stay with me this night. There’s no sense sleeping in the station when I have empty beds and too many rooms.” Minos waves to the counter man. “Yerni, excellent slop today.”

  The man tips his head in thanks, then gives a sigh of relief once Minos turns toward the door. Iolalus and I gather our things, thank the counter man with the coin Minos didn’t let me use earlier, then follow after the red-cloaked man.

  The walk up the hill isn’t far but takes three times as long as it should. Vendors, shoppers, and strollers keep stopping Minos to gossip with him, joke with him, and laugh with him. He never seems in a hurry and has a humorous comeback or concerned reply for every comment.

  Minos’s home is grander than anything I’ve seen, but not ostentatious like Eury’s villa. This home is sparsely but tastefully decorated with a few well-placed pieces of high quality furniture in each room. The king’s only extravagancies are a life-size statue of a bull in the spacious foyer and a few walls painted with decorative frescoes depicting dancing nymphs and battling centaurs.

  “You should stay for the festival tomorrow. Rest up, enjoy Minoa before you head back to Portaceae,” Minos offers. It’s the hottest time of the afternoon, but we are relaxing comfortably drinking vintage wine from Illamos in the house’s central courtyard as cool air wafts from a gurgling fountain.

  Iolalus looks to me hopefully. “The letter didn’t give a timeline.”

  I think of Iole watching us leave and imagine her with a joyful smile on her lips as she runs to greet us on our return. Then, barging in on the pleasant daydream, is Deianira harping on me and snatching at my groin. “No, it didn’t and I’ve heard the festivals of Minoa shouldn’t be missed,” I say, remembering Stavros’s descriptions during our long night together.

  “Excellent,” Minos says. “You won’t want to leave once you’ve had a taste of Minoan life.”

  Truly, Minoan life is good. Despite the amount of food he ate only a few hours previous, in the evening Minos holds a full dinner attended by an array of people—young, old, wealthy, modest—that lasts well into the night. The food, like Minos himself, is plentiful but not elaborate, flavorful but not rich, and well-loved by all. This event is apparently a monthly occurrence in Minoa and allows the Minoan people a chance to discuss issues and grievances with their leader.

  At this month’s dinner, little of the talk focuses on Minoa—a matter that disappoints me since I wonder what people could possibly find amiss in this kingdom. Instead of dwelling on their own land and politics, the guests are filled with curious questions about Portaceae, about The Twelve, and about the governance of the poli that Iolalus and I answer as best we can. Although the Minoans carry an air that their way is better, they never criticize our responses and never insult our ways. Such a conversation would never occur in Portaceae where the gods are held to high esteem and where we cling stubbornly to our beliefs and way of life regardless how little it gains us.

  The next morning, my gut still aches with fullness and I only take small portions of eggs and fruit from the buffet of food Minos’s household has laid out. Even Iolalus, who can eat men twice his size under the table, picks at his food like a woman forcing herself to lose weight.

  “You Portaceans have tiny bellies,” Minos jests as he pushes a forkful of fried potatoes into his mouth.

  “If wars were won based on how much a man can eat, all of Osteria would be called Minoa,” I concede as I force a grape into my mouth.

  Minos enjoys the observation with a hearty chortle and tips his cup of tea to me. “What a world that would be where forks and spoons took the place of arrows and swords.”

  The festivities of the Earthshaker are marvelous and throughout the day I can’t help but think how much Iole would enjoy them. In the Minoan arena—which dwarfs Portaceae’s—young men dance among young bulls. Full of vigor, both man and beast chase one another around the arena. When a bull gets too close, the men turn and leap over the backs of the animals. Some men merely vault over, but others earn cheers from the crowd as they perform back flips and cartwheels over the beasts’ backs. In another area of the city, a maze has been erected. Those who spend too long making their way through are flogged with a whip of feathers by a man in a bull’s head mask. In small pens erected in the squares throughout the city, young boys chase and try to catch calves that have been slicked with oil much to the crowd’s amusement.

  To complete the day’s festivities, Frederic the bull is paraded through the main square, taken around the temple—twelve times I notice, even the kingdoms of Osteria who claim to have broken from worship of The Twelve still retain traces of the old religion. On the twelfth turn he’s covered by a black sheet, led away, and another beast covered in a white sheet is brought to the temple. The white sheet is whisked away to reveal a bull painted half in black and half in gold. The people cheer the painted bull as Frederic, still under his cover, is led away with little fanfare. The message is clear, the old, familiar year is dead and best to be forgotten and now it’s time to recognize the new year that may be plentiful or it may be poor.

  By the time we arrive to Minos’s house, we’re well drunk on strong Minoan beer and the sky is already beginning to show the light of dawn. In the yard to the side of the house, Frederic sleeps letting out heavy snores and completely unaware that he’s been cast aside for a younger bull.

  It’s late morning before anyone in the house wakes. My head aches and my stomach feels like it’s been filled with a hot, gurgling fountain. Iolalus moves carefully as if every step hurts and looks as terrible as I feel. Minos, however, appears ready for another day of revelry and I have no doubt that as soon as the shop opens, he’ll be gulping down Yerni’s stew.

  With cheerful and sincere tidings, Minos sends us on our way with heavy satchels of food in packs that we drape over Frederic’s back. The bull, complacent as any animal can be, follows us without pause. Once to the station, we load him onto a cargo car, but as soon as the door shuts, he lets out a low, moaning sound as pitiful as any child’s cry.

  I look to Iolalus and my thoughts must be plain on my face.

  “No, I’m not riding back there,” he protests. “Three days. Do you know what that car’s going to smell like in three days?”

  “We can let him out at stops.”

  “We can’t leave the stations. Where are we going to take him?”

  “Here, then.” I hand him his travel pass. He takes it with a challenging thrust of his chin. I pull open the cargo door and climb inside.

  “Fine,” Iolalus concedes as he rolls his bloodshot eyes. He stuffs his travel pass in the pouch on his belt and pulls himself into the car. “But they’re laying down extra straw before we go. Sacred bulls still shit, you know.”

  I spend much of the journey with Frederic at my side. When I stand to walk about the car, he follows me in tight circles. When I sit, he rests his head in my lap.

  “He’s going to stab you in the sausage with those horns,” Iolalus says.

  “He’s careful with them,” I reply as I ruffle the soft fur behind the bull’s ears.

  The sun is nearly set by the time the train pulls into Portaceae
. Ours will be the last train allowed in the city today and the station’s gate slams shut startling Frederic from his slumber. I think of taking Frederic to the House of Hera, but I fear Euphemia’s wrath if he disturbs her carefully raked paths.

  “We should take him to Eury,” I suggest hoping Iolalus will talk me out of it.

  “Best to get it over with,” he says quietly as he strokes the bull’s back and we wait to have our travel permits checked.

  The time it takes for us to convince the station guards that Frederic is indeed for Eury, gives the sky and streets a chance to darken. With Eury’s curfew in place, we avoid attracting a crowd of followers on our way to and up the Solonian Hill. Leaving Frederic with Iolalus, I climb the steps up to the house’s porch and pound on the front entry. Baruch opens the door and his eyes flick from me to the bull. An exasperated expression crosses his regal, angular face.

  “Wait here.” He closes the door and I go back down to Frederic who gives a low rumble in greeting.

  Several moments later, Eury flings open the door with one hand as he ties the sash of a silk robe with his other. Adneta bounces up behind him and gives a little squeal of joy when she sees Frederic.

  “Sorry to leave you waiting, cousins.” Eury pulls Adneta to him and drapes his arm around her so his hand cups around one of her breasts. “I had business to complete.”

  “Your bull,” I say curtly. Frederic nuzzles his head under my hand and I rub him behind the ears.

  “As I see. Take the thing to the temple. The sacrifice will be tomorrow. Adneta and I will feast on the beast tomorrow night.”

  Frederic nudges my hip. A protective rage sears through me.

  “You can’t sacrifice him. He’s a sacred animal, not for slaughter,” I insist. My hands clench causing me to pull Frederic’s fur. He shakes his head as if fending off a fly.

  “He’s going to be killed. It’s part of the task,” Eury says with a sneering smirk on his lips.

  “It doesn’t say that.” I reach in my pouch for the letter. I rip it out and shake it at Eury. “It said to bring you the bull of Minoa. Bring it to you. Not to let it be killed.”

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I want you to bring me the bull and I want you to sacrifice it. Or have you grown more attached to some creature than you have your life. Or Iolalus’s life?” I refuse to respond to his threat. “After all, we need to appease the gods so they can protect Portaceae from the Areans. I’ve been telling everyone how the great Hercules Dion will bring a beast to save us all. You wouldn’t want to deny them their superstitious rituals, would you?”

  “It’s stronger walls and armed vigiles we need, not a dead bull,” Iolalus urges.

  “Perhaps, but a dead bull can’t hurt. And don’t forget, Iole will die too if you fail to do this. After all, you didn’t drag her to the woods of Cedonia. She volunteered, placing herself under the same laws as yourself and Iolalus.”

  “You bastard,” I mutter. I grip Frederic’s lead and storm off. Unsure of what is going on, Frederic remains still. The lead yanks tight and I tug on it to get him moving. Eury lets out a cruel laugh as I struggle with the stubborn animal. Finally, Iolalus nudges Frederic in the rump and the bull gets the hint to move.

  “What will you do?” Iolalus asks once we’ve reached the bottom of the hill.

  “Wait with him at the temple. I won’t leave him there alone.”

  At the gates, Iolalus delivers a half-hearted insult to his friend Odysseus who slips the gate tender a coin to open the gate just enough for me and the bull to squeeze through. I urge Iolalus to hurry back to the House before the Solonian Guards accuse him of breaking curfew, but he pauses to nuzzle his head against Frederic’s. His throat catches when he mutters goodbye to “dumb old Freddie.”

  I pass through the gates and walk with heavy steps to the temple that seems a lifeless thing after the activity surrounding the temple of Minoa.

  I approach the altar, but don’t walk around it. On the opposite side of where I stand is the blood crime vault. Even without seeing it, the idea of being so close to the thing sends shivers along my arms and legs. With only a sliver of a moon low on the horizon lighting the temple, Hera’s statue appears to loom at the back reminding me of the Nemean lion hiding in his cave waiting to attack. I scratch at the back of my neck to press down the hairs that have pricked up.

  I sit with my back to the temple. After several turns, Frederic eases himself down behind me. I doze for a while resting against his back. In what seems like only a moment, the moon has risen high in the sky and the sound of tiny bells jangles rhythmically nearby. Appearing brighter than if lit by a full moon, a silvery horse approaches bearing a pale rider dressed all in white.

  Without a word to explain how she has made it through the gates of the city after dark, Iole slides off her horse and settles in beside me. I wrap my arm around her waist and she pulls my cloak tighter to her. A warmth burns from within me as we drift to sleep with Frederic snoring softly behind us.

  23

  EURY

  In the morning, Baruch dresses me in my ceremonial clothes and drives me and Adneta to the temple as the guards trot behind us. Adneta wears one of her new gowns that have been designed in the style of the one Iole wore on Herc’s wedding day, but I have to admit that the Herene pulled the look off better. On Adneta, the dress clings too tightly and reveals what should be seductively hidden. Still, I can’t complain about the sight of my wife’s breasts practically falling out of the bodice.

  I had wanted to shout after Herc when he stormed off last night. It is against protocol for anyone to leave my presence without being dismissed, but I was too pleased with my own cleverness to quibble over details. I truly hadn’t carried any notions of killing the bull when I created the task. I only wanted Herc out of Portaceae and was simply going to let a little blood and call it a sacrifice well done. But when I watched the animal nuzzling up to Herc like a stray dog and observed the pleased expression on Herc’s face at the gesture, well, if Hera thinks she has the monopoly on cruelty toward my cousin, she has completely misjudged me.

  At the edge of the temple grounds, Baruch has to slow the carriage to press through the crowd of people who have gathered. The laws of the temple state they can’t come within a hundred paces of the altar; the boundary being marked by a row of low lavender hedges. But the people have pressed up to the shrubs and now peer over one another, squeezing smaller folks in front and hoisting children on shoulders to see the show the blazing rumor mill of Portaceae must have announced.

  Well, a show they will get.

  Baruch halts the carriage twenty paces from the altar. There, Herc and Iole stand on opposite sides of the beast with somber faces made darker by a bank of grey clouds that have gathered over night. Iolalus stands in front of the bull holding his hand out while the animal moves its massive head up and down as if it doesn’t understand the concept of how to be pet.

  I stride up to the front of the altar with Adneta by my side. Iole steps away from the beast to join us, but makes no effort to move quickly or to acknowledge her Solon and Solonia. Even her grooming shows a lack of respect. Her hair, which normally hangs so perfectly, has been tied into a quick, loose braid.

  “I’d think you could have taken some time with your appearance,” I say.

  “We need to have a meeting, Eury. Soon. Please let me know when you’ll grace me with your presence so I can be sure to meet your expectations of how a Herene should look before you arrive.” She gives an insincere curtsey, holding my gaze with a defiant gleam in her eye.

  “Another meeting. Wonderful. I’ll be certain to check my schedule.” The irksome little Herene has been trying to arrange a meeting since my festivities ended. Of course, I know it’s going to be about money, and since I have none left, I see no point in holding a discussion about it. To halt her tongue that threatens to wag again, I announce in a loud voice so all can hear, “People of Portaceae, these are terrible times. Hera seems to not care for us as
she should and has allowed our borders to be invaded. So, it is to the other gods we sacrifice the blood of this bull in the hopes they will honor us with their protection.”

  A few people cheer, but the majority of them shift about casting uneasy looks at one another. Mutters and whispers dance across the temple yard and echo through the temple back onto me. Are they worried because I’ve called on other gods to come to Portaceae’s aid in front of Hera’s temple? Superstitious fools.

  I pull a dagger from my belt, present it on its side to Iole who hesitates before touching it with the tip of her finger to give it her blessing. I move to the side of the bull. As Solon, I should be the one to make the sacrifice, but I have no intention of bloodying myself. I only want to watch Herc’s discomfort before I have one of guards finish the task. Herc refuses to look at the creature, staring instead at his feet as his jaw grinds back and forth.

  When I put the blade to the bull’s throat, I glance at my hulking cousin from the corner of my eye and nearly laugh at the sight of his wet cheeks. It’s too tempting an opportunity to pass by. I whip the knife away, flip it around, and hold the handle out to him. It takes a great effort to maintain my feigned solemnity and to not break out in laughter when I notice the tremble in his hands. I step in closer to him, giving the appearance that I’m kissing him on the cheek.

  “You will do it or they will die,” I whisper in his ear before backing away.

  Herc grips the handle and steps up to the bull.

  The audience has fallen into awed silence, but as Herc stands by the bull that keeps nudging into him, they begin to chant his name. He looks to Iole and then to Iolalus. A look of resignation passes over his face, but is quickly replaced by a stern expression of resolution. Only his quivering jaw betrays his resolve to complete the task.