As he places the blade to the animal’s throat, the crowd grows louder with shouts and cheers for my cousin. Although ancient and sturdy, I fear the columns of the temple might collapse under the rumble of their praises. Herc wraps his left arm around the bull’s neck as tears wash down his face. With the dagger in his right hand, he presses it to the creature’s throat and whispers an apology to the stupid animal.
A crackling pop like a log bursting in a hearth sounds behind me. A flash of light silences the people’s chants. My first thought is lightning as my eyes dart to the slate-colored clouds above the temple. The audience drops to their knees with their heads bowed. Herc’s hand releases the knife and he too collapses to his knees to join Iolalus who is already on the ground.
You’ve got to be kidding.
I spin around, nearly crashing into Adneta in my angry haste. Behind us, on the temple steps stands Hera with her eyes narrowed and her mouth pinched so tight her facial muscles are quivering.
“Leave this bull,” Hera commands.
“But it's a sacrifice to you, my goddess,” I lie.
“No, it does too much honor to him.” She juts an elegant finger at Herc. “Not to you, not to me. Do you think these people came here today for you? No, they came to watch the hero who obtained this beast, who will sacrifice it, and who will win their respect. He does not deserve such glory.”
I don't give a god's eye whether the bull is killed or not, but I will not be ordered about like this in front of my people.
“He will kill it. Do it,” I order Herc, “or you will have failed this task.”
Herc stands up, glances from me to Hera, then takes the dagger and turns back to the bull. The animal hums as my cousin pets its muzzle. Herc then flips the dagger in a deft motion so the blade is in his hand. Hera makes a noise as if to speak, but Herc turns and offers me the hilt of the dagger.
“I cannot go against a god's wish. Do what you will.”
I look about hoping to see fear in the faces of Iole and Iolalus, but they stare at me with angry defiance.
“Guards,” I shout. My throbbing nose feels ripe enough to burst. “Arrest the three of them. Dig a hole and bury them this instant.”
The guards jog up. Hera steps directly into their path and holds up her hand in a stop gesture. The guards, their momentum already on them too greatly to halt, fall back as if they've hit a wall.
“He has completed the task you set out in writing,” she says. “He, nor they will be condemned.” She moves in closer to me, speaking in a low conspirator’s tone. “You and I are of the same mind, Eury, you know that, but you will not dishonor my polis, nor my temple with falsehoods and petty acts.”
She glides over to the bull and pierces the flesh of its ear with her fingernail. The bull flicks its ear once, but shows no other sign of minding the injury.
Hera pinches the bull’s ear between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. Holding out the tip of her other hand's index finger, she catches the light trickle of blood that drizzles out. With a flick of her wrist, the blood splatters onto the altar.
“There. The sacrifice is done. Leave the bull at the edge of Forested Park where it will live out its life. We are done with this,” she says as she gives me a scolding look of disapproval. “Have you another task up your sleeve, Solon?”
I don't need to think. In Herc's absence I've pondered over my map dreaming of how far I can send him, what danger I can put him in.
“The horses of Diomedes. The creatures are needed for battle. He leaves today.”
“No,” a shrill voice calls. Deianira has snaked her way through the crowd. She dares to go beyond the lavender boundary and weasels her way up to our little group like an audience member stepping uninvited into a scene of a play. “My husband needs to come home for a night.”
“If he stays the night, I’m certain he’ll choose to spend it in the House of Hera,” I say with contempt. I’m in no mood to deal with this woman’s marital woes. “That's the law according to our head priestess. You'll have to take the matter up with her if you want him to stay with you.”
Deianira looks to Iole. Scorn etches into her thin face, but also doubt. “He can come to me today, then. Before he leaves. You will, won't you?” she asks him in a pathetic pleading tone.
Herc's face strains. It’s clear to even the blindest man in Portaceae that he’s making every effort to not look at Iole as he fixes his eyes on his wife in an unblinking stare.
“I must ready myself. If I have the time, I’ll—”
Her face ignites with rage. “Make the time,” Deianira demands before storming off.
“I'll see your papers are sent to the House of Hera,” I say to Herc. “No doubt you'll be there.”
Herc gives a curt nod and leads the bull away. Iolalus remains behind glaring at me.
“Don't you have a cousin to follow?” I ask with a dismissive wave.
“I'll escort Iole home.” He turns to her. “Are you ready?”
Iole glances to Hera. Something passes between the two of them. A harsh glare from the mother. A quick downturn of the eyes from the daughter.
“Well?” Hera asks impatiently. “Explain yourself.”
“I love him,” Iole whispers.
Hera's face softens for just a heartbeat. Then, as if someone has pulled strings at the back of her head, Hera’s face tightens once more to her usual stern expression.
“And perhaps he you, but it will not be. You are a Herene, he is a husband. You each have your duties. You know what will happen if you forget them. Do not think because you are my daughter that I will turn a blind eye to any vow-breaking deeds you commit. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, mother.”
Hera shoots me one of her harshest glares as Iole swings up onto a white mare. Iolalus takes the reins and guides the horse to the boundary hedge and through the crowd that bows their heads to her. I hook my arm into Adneta's and we stroll to my carriage leaving Hera standing alone before her temple.
24
IOLE
Once back to the House, Iolalus offers to take my horse as if he knows the absence of Cy still pains me whenever I go to the stables. I dismount and nuzzle my face into the mare’s neck enjoying the delicate sound of the bells jostling in her mane. I then retreat to my rooms, climbing each stair on unsteady legs. My mother's words have shaken me to the bone. I can still feel the implied threat as if I’ve been pierced with one of Herc’s arrows. Her message to me is clear: Both Herc and I will die if we go any further with our love.
But how can I be expected just to slaughter my emotions? My yearning for him, to feel his lips on mine, to have him touch my skin burns strong enough to make me want to break my vows regardless the consequences.
Inside my office, I hear the beads of Maxinia’s abacus clicking against one another. I do not want company so I curl into the window seat of the hallway. I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that, although I stare at the courtyard, I don’t truly see the routine activities taking place down there.
I’ve always been content with my career as a Herene and haven’t regretted for one moment the agreement I made with my mother, but now every part of me hates my position and that pact. Still, I can't risk Herc’s life for my desires. Although I have a feeling my mother sympathizes with me, Hera bears little enough love for Herc and will not overlook his neglect of his wife simply because she pities my heart's desire. And, of course, my mother would never forgive a woman, not even her own daughter, who took a man from his wife. As much as I hate the thought, I must stop my feelings before they take me, or him, any further down a dangerous path. I would rather be cruel to Herc and send him to another woman's arms than to have him die for my foolishness.
Unable to sit still with my thoughts, I pace the hall, dashing to the window every time I hear footsteps on the courtyard gravel. The first time is only Euphemia with her rake. The second turns out to be a scuffle between two of the peacocks that brings Euphemia back again brandishin
g her tool at the troublesome birds. On the third look, I expect to see Euphemia yet again tidying the walkways, but am rewarded with the sight of Herc.
Iolalus stands in front of Herc pointing to the gate. Herc makes a downward thrusting motion with his hand, then points up to my rooms. The argument draws a mix of sharp, wary, and curious glances from the women in the courtyard. Iolalus appears to be pleading something, but Herc is having none of it. In a final commanding thrust of his chin, it seems Herc has ended the debate. Leaving Iolalus standing there, Herc marches off to the guest quarters’ stairwell.
I watch through the window until I see Herc return to the courtyard with his weapons and travel pack, disappear to the work area behind the House, and then reappear in the courtyard on his chestnut. My throat clenches with emotion as he turns to look up to my rooms before he passes through the Peacock Gate. Euphemia hobbles in the wake of the great horse, dragging her rake over the disturbed gravel.
While Herc travels to this newest task, I spend the days writing messages to Eury to fix a meeting. Most of my notes he refuses to answer, others he replies to with poor excuses of why he can’t attend. First, he claims his wife is ill although I had just seen her that morning in the agora with the servant Baruch. Next, his carriage is being repaired to which I reply he should just walk into the city center—a reply that receives no response. Then, he apparently gives up coming up with clever reasons and simply gives the excuse that he is too busy. In frustration, I tear his reply into a hundred tiny pieces.
And each evening, I mope in my window seat, while each night I lose myself in pointless musings of Herc and myself.
On the third morning after Herc’s departure, I am attempting to write out another note to Eury, but keep finding myself lost in my own thoughts so that an hour after sitting down to the task, I’ve only completed a single line. A knocking at the door breaks my reverie. Maxinia answers it.
After quickly scanning the room, Iolalus, grinning his infectious grin that lightens my dark mood instantly, makes a beckoning motion with his hand and whispers, “Come on. You too, Maxinia.”
“What’s going on?” I ask as I push my unfinished letter aside.
“The feed is on.”
“That’s against the Solon’s order,” Maxinia says mischievously.
“Which is why the bells aren’t ringing. This is by invitation only and Eury’s not on the list of guests.”
It’s a risk to go directly against Eury’s orders by showing the feed and against the law to call a gathering at the arena without involving the Solon, but my irritation with Eury and my desire to see Herc vetoes any law-abiding sense I have left. Iolalus and I head down the stairs to the courtyard with Maxinia close behind.
“What did you and Herc argue about the day he left?” I ask as we join the line of people moving along the Hera Way in the direction of the arena.
“I wanted to go with him and he refused to let me.”
“But why? I know the roads are filled with bandits, but the journey to Diomedes’s holdings isn’t any more dangerous than traveling to the other tasks.”
“It’s not me he was worried about. He wanted me to stay to protect you.”
Before I can recover from what he says or think of a clever reply, we are swarmed in by a crowd of people coming from a side street. With Maxinia gazing over everyone’s heads, she guides us to a section of the street where we can move without being jostled by Portaceans excited to see their hero once again.
“I’ll meet you at the back entrance when this is over,” Iolalus says as we near the main arena gate. A long line has already formed for seating in the stands. The whole situation could erupt into brawls or riots, but, to my surprise, the people are being patient about waiting their turn to enter as the line slowly inches its way through the entrance.
“Don’t be stupid. You’ll join us in the box,” Maxinia says, causing me to gape at her in disbelief. It may be her size or her devotion to the accounts, but I’ve always taken her as a stickler for the rules, and men are never allowed in the Herenes’ box.
“Thanks, Maxinia,” Iolalus says as he reaches up to throw his arm around her waist. She blushes and shoves his arm aside. I’ve been too lost in my own concerns to notice the friendship that has formed between them. But then again, who could help but like Iolalus?
The crowd is so thick it takes an unusual amount of time to push our way through to the back entrance. I breathe a sigh of relief that Eury’s carriage is nowhere in sight. If he discovers a gathering has been called without his notice, there will be no containing his fury. By the time we climb the stairs and settle into the Herenes’ box seat, the screen is already lit up. Centered on it is Herc riding his chestnut.
“How is this coming through?” I ask.
As if on cue, the shot swings in a dizzying arc from Herc to the hawkish face of Altair.
“He took him and not me?” Iolalus blurts in amused disappointment.
“Stavros,” Altair says to the lens, “I hope you're getting this. Ladies and gentlemen of Portaceae, I present to you, your hero, Herc Dion.” The camera zips back around to Herc. “By the way, I'm officially cargo if anyone asks.” The audience gives a polite giggle. “Herc was reluctant to let me come along, but I think I'm growing on him. Right, Herc?”
Herc looks into the lens. His deep blue eyes glow against his olive skin. With a wry smile he says, “Like a canker sore.”
This time the audience hoots with laughter. Something needles me like a child who dares to defy her parents but who cannot enjoy the rebellion for fear of possible punishment. The feed is supposed to be cut off. Everyone in the arena, myself included, is committing treason. I shift in my seat and can’t help but check Eury’s box every time a sound comes from its direction.
“What?” Iolalus asks.
“The feed. If Eury knows this is being shown—”
“What? He’ll put the entire city into the blood crime vault? He can’t punish everyone, they’ll be out of here in a heartbeat.”
“And us?” I ask.
“Crowd control.” He gives an innocent shrug that makes me laugh despite my fears. “The trumpets will announce him. If we hear them, we can tuck further back into the box seat where he won’t see us. Now, stop worrying and enjoy the show.”
I try to do as he advises, but find it impossible to keep my eyes from drifting to Eury’s box whenever Herc isn’t on the screen.
“And what are we up today?” Altair asks. “It better be good since you've denied our audience the excitement of seeing a fair number of your latest adventures.”
“Getting some flesh-eating horses. Four of them.”
“Flesh. Eating,” Altair says pausing over each syllable. All confidence has vanished from his voice.
“Did you want to turn back? Because I’m not forcing you. You’re the one who asked to come along.”
“Um, no,” the cameraman says unconvincingly. “I'm here to share your deeds with Portaceae. They've missed too much for me to back down now.” The view swings around again to Altair's long face. “People of Portaceae, you owe me one.” The view changes back to Herc.
“And where is your trusty companion Iolalus? Plenty of girls want to see him on the big screen too.”
Several eyes from the audience look up at Iolalus. His cheeks turn as red as his hair, but he gives a confident wave that earns him a cheer.
On screen, Herc pauses, the wry smile creeping up again. He stares directly into the lens and I feel as if he’s looking straight into my own eyes.
“He's guarding a precious object I'm already missing.”
My eyes duck away from the screen and my face blazes as hot as Iolalus's had a moment ago. After the fluster, perturbed resolve pulses through me. Herc can't continue like this and the matter must be settled on his return.
We watch as Herc enters into the territory of Diomedes—a region that is neither polis nor kingdom to our north in the land dividing Portaceae from the polis of Helena. Despite be
ing the middle of the day and sunny in Portaceae City, fog drapes over distant trees and shrouds the surrounding hillsides in grey.
The view changes to Herc's back as he and Altair travel on an unpaved forest path wide enough for only a single horse. As the trees thin, they’re replaced by jagged stones that spread out as far as the camera can fit into its view. Many of the stones nearest the path stick straight up in needle-thin projections. One fall, one misstep, and the landscape itself could kill a person who dares to travel through it.
With the forest behind them, it’s as if the area has consumed every color of life and every scrap of beauty. Instead of low-growing ground cover, ferns, or fields of wildflowers, skeletons of thorny shrubs litter the stony landscape. Eventually the fog lifts, but the sky remains covered in a thin layer of ashen clouds.
“Who chooses to live in a place like that?” Iolalus asks reflecting my own thoughts.
The path widens and Altair rides up alongside Herc. As they approach a stone house, the surrounding stones and pathway transition from jagged daggers to flat angled slabs stacked over one another like a pack of cards discarded by a giant. As the horses gingerly make their way over the stones, the camera angles wildly followed by the hollow bang of rock hitting rock.
“You okay?” Herc asks.
“It's not exactly the easiest surface to get a horse over.”
From behind the house the camera picks up the snorts and cries of angry horses.
Herc dismounts and walks to the door of the house with Altair following close behind keeping Herc in focus. Before Herc has the chance to knock, an old man jerks open the door. The man appears about seventy but is not unkempt or stooped. His silver hair is combed back, a fresh tunic is cinched at his trim waist, and on his feet are familiar knee-high leather boots. At his neck dangles a peacock charm
“A vigile,” Iolalus says in a hushed tone.
“What d'ya want?” The old man asks with not even a fraction of a welcome in his voice.
“Hera protect Portaceae,” Herc says in greeting.
The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles Page 25
