Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 03

by The Eye Of The Ram

  The merchant, puffing a bit, leaned heavily against the wagon's gate. "Thanks," he managed to say.

  Hercules shrugged modestly. "My pleasure. Are you all right?"

  "I think so, yes. More surprised than anything. They were hiding, you see. We weren't prepared." His expression hardened. "Should have been, though. After all this, we should have known it would happen."

  Hercules didn't understand, and didn't pursue it. Utterances like that, when questioned, were the kind that almost always got him into predicaments. Instead, he took a step back and stared at the wagon.

  Both vehicles were of a variety he had seen only a few times before. Each bed was enclosed by thin walls and a rounded roof. The walls were aswirl with painted flowers, images of gymnasts, tongues of fire, what might have been a roaring beast, and curlicues that ran like vines around the edges.

  "Here," the merchant said, beckoning.

  Hercules looked in the back.

  It was crammed with at least a dozen large chests, each wrapped in chains.

  He whistled silently. "So what is it? Gold? Silver?"

  The merchant shook his head with a laugh. "1 wish. No, friend, they're props and costumes."

  "Yours?"

  The man grunted. ' 'Gods, no. The wagons are the only things that belong to me."

  "You're not in charge?"

  "Bite your tongue, sir, bite your tongue." He held out a hand in greeting. "My name is Flovi. Flovi Zigfalius."

  Hercules gripped the offered hand, noting as he did that the man was a lot stronger than he looked.

  Flovi was nearly as tall as he, and obviously lean despite the flowing brown robe he wore. His face was dark and lined, like that of a man who spent a great deal of time in the sun; it was marked by large gray eyes and a thick gray mustache that drooped past the corners of his mouth.

  Hercules gestured toward the caravan. "I still don't get it."

  Flovi opened his mouth to answer and groaned softly instead. Hercules caught him as he sagged against the gate, and eased him to the ground.

  "Sorry," the man said, wincing. "I guess they caught me, after all."

  Hercules spotted the rent in the cloth first. It was under the man's left arm, and he could see the faint stain of fresh blood. Flovi hissed when Hercules separated the tear, fearing the worst and puffing out a relieved breath when he saw that the gash was shallow, more ugly than lethal.

  "Nothing serious," he announced.

  "Worse luck," Flovi muttered.

  Under the man's direction Hercules found a cloth in the wagon, tore them into manageable strips, and dipped it into a barrel of water lashed to the wagon's side. After cleansing the wound, he bound it snugly and helped Flovi back to his feet.

  Another groan made him frown. "Are you sure you're all right?"

  Flovi sighed. "That wasn't me."

  Which was when Hercules finally remembered the bundle that had yelped when the thieves kicked it.

  Rolling his eyes in disgust for forgetting, he returned to the lead wagon, hunkered down, and looked under it. "Are you all right, friend?"

  The bundle shifted, and a muffled voice said, "I'm dying. Dying, and nobody cares."

  Hercules' eyes widened.

  No, he thought, leaning back and shaking his head in dismay; please, gods, no.

  He poked the bundle.

  The bundle moaned.

  Flovi came up behind him and said, "We could leave him there and nobody'd be any the wiser."

  "Traitor," the bundle snapped. "After all I've done for you."

  Flovi checked the area of his wound. "Oh, yeah, I forgot."

  Hercules stood and nudged the bundle with his foot. "Get up. You're not hurt."

  "I'm not?" the bundle exclaimed indignantly. "How can you say I'm not hurt? I could ... I could be..."

  The bundle rolled out from under the wagon, shook itself until it resolved into a man wearing a robe bright enough to blind the sun, and held out a hand that Hercules grabbed in order to yank the man to his feet.

  He was modestly short, gently round in face and body; his hair began a third of the way back on his scalp in tight white curls and waves that darkened to brown by his ears and neck. His beard was short as well, and of the brown his hair probably once had been.

  Almost immediately, his pained frown was replaced by a delighted smile.

  "Hercules!" he cried, flinging his arms joyfully around him. "Hercules, what a wonderful, fortuitous, delightful surprise!"

  Hercules patted the man on the back gingerly.

  Signs and portents.

  Maybe it wasn't too late to find that cave.

  "Hello, Salmoneus," he said resignedly. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?''

  3

  The caravans moved slowly along the hard-packed road. The horses bobbed their heads in time to the pace, their tails every so often flicking pesky insects from their rumps. Glimpses of farmland could be seen to the right, in the far distance. A solid log bridge stretched over a wide rushing stream speckled with shade from overhanging trees.

  From the driver's seat on the trailing wagon, Flovi entertained the woodland with songs that ranged from bawdy to mawkish. He had a wonderfully smooth baritone, the only fault being an occasional lapse in his ability to find the right note. His method to correct that fault was simple, get close enough, pounce, and pound it into shape.

  The horses' ears twitched spastically at the result.

  "All day," Salmoneus grumbled, glumly staring at the reins in his hands. "I hear that all day."

  "I've heard worse," Hercules said just as a high note ricocheted off the scale. He winced. "Okay, maybe not."

  "All day. All. . . day."

  Hercules grinned, stretched, and told himself he ought to be grateful for the ride. Walking everywhere kept him in shape, allowed him to see things he might not ordinarily see, but as strong as they were, his legs didn't always appreciate the constant labor.

  On the other hand, the ride was with Salmoneus.

  That could only mean one thing, and he didn't want to dwell on it because it would only upset him.

  Salmoneus was . .. different.

  For as long as Hercules had known him, the man had never failed to be embroiled in some manner of controversy or outright mayhem. Not that he was a brawler or a warrior or a drunkard. Far from it. Salmoneus was one of the most gentle men Hercules had ever met.

  The problem was his mind.

  It never stopped working.

  Ever.

  As far as he could tell, Salmoneus' dream was to become the richest man in the world. It had nothing to do with power; it had everything to do with the usually cheerful man's constant search for that which had never existed before. Idea's, schemes, inventions—they came to him by the dozens, and Hercules didn't think Salmoneus ever turned one away, no matter how outlandish.

  During one of their first meetings, Salmoneus had decided he could turn a fast dinar by following Hercules around and writing down everything he said and did. He called the project a celebrity biography, which, when copied in sufficient quantity, would make them both a fortune.

  It never happened.

  Then there was the idea of getting an artist to paint Hercules' face on the back of shirts, which, when sold in sufficient quantity, would make them both a fortune.

  That never happened either.

  Not to mention the time in the gambling hall when he invented something called the Happy Hour, a spe-cific time of day when all drinks were sold at half price, to such an extent that it would, unquestionably, make him a fortune.

  The profits were, to say the least, disappointing.

  Just watching him think made Hercules tired.

  Listening to him explain how this scheme or that invention would rake in the dinars and fat purses of gold was enough to exhaust him more than battling a small army or one of Hera's assassination-minded monsters.

  "So how would you like to get rich?" Salmoneus finally asked.

  Hercul
es stared at the broad backs of the horses. He said nothing. He indicated nothing. He did his best not to breathe.

  A Salmoneus idea, no matter how ingenious or ridiculous, never ever went anywhere without its close cousin—utter disaster.

  Cousin, in fact, was the wrong word.

  Twin was more like it.

  It wasn't Salmoneus' fault... most of the time; it just happened that way.

  "This time," Salmoneus continued confidently, "it's going to work. I know it. I can feel it. I can almost taste it."

  Hercules grunted.

  "You want to know what it is?"

  Hercules looked at him steadily. "No, Salmoneus, I don't."

  Salmoneus smiled. A broad smile. A trademark smile that underlined his unbounded optimism. "Sure you do."

  "1 suppose you'll tell me whether I want to know or not."

  Flovi broke into an operatic rendition of "The Last Time I Saw Athens." Some of the notes were damn close. Even the horses' ears stopped twitching for a few bars.

  Without warning Salmoneus' expression slipped from good cheer to concerned. A bad sign; and if the wagon hadn't been rumbling across another bridge, Hercules would have considered jumping.

  "Actually," the man admitted, "I kind of need your help."

  "No."

  Salmoneus' eyes widened in shock. "No?"

  "Right."

  "You said no?"

  "Yep."

  "But.. . but., . but you can't say no!"

  Hercules kept his gaze on the horses. "Yes, I can. No."

  "But you're Hercules!"

  "Yep."

  "Hercules never says no to someone in trouble."

  "Sure he does. He does it all the time. A couple of times a day, in fact. Trust me, I've heard him."

  The wagon tilted over a large rock. When it thumped back to the ground, Hercules grabbed the side with one hand to keep from falling off, and braced himself for Salmoneus' next attempt.

  Oddly, it didn't come.

  For the next mile or so, save for Flovi's lighthearted search for the melody in "Aphrodite Is My Temple Baby," there was silence. It would have been a welcome silence had not Hercules felt so guilty. Which made him mad. Which made him angry that he was mad because he felt guilty. Which made him uncomfortable because he knew Salmoneus was right—he hardly ever turned anyone down who needed his help. And that made him even angrier.

  And more guilty.

  He cleared his throat, a grudging, this had better he good signal that he was willing to listen.

  Still Salmoneus said nothing. He concentrated on his driving.

  Flovi, meanwhile, had switched to what was apparently his own composition, something about Man's search for Truth in a world where the gods kept switching reality around when Man wasn't looking, which rather defeated the purpose of searching for the Truth.

  Not to mention the right notes.

  Hercules said, "I'll be back," jumped off the wagon, waited until Flovi drew up beside him, and said,

  "Do me a favor and keep quiet for a while."

  Flovi puffed his cheeks in indignation, his long mustache fairly fluttering. "I'm an artist, sir. A composer. A musician. I don't do favors like that."

  "I saved your life. Make an exception."

  Flovi harrumphed, stroked his mustache, and finally, reluctantly, nodded. "But if the Muse comes," he yelled defiantly as Hercules trotted away, "I shall not turn her away!"

  If the Muse comes, Hercules thought, she's dumber than I thought. And stone deaf, too.

  Once back in his seat, he jabbed Salmoneus' shoulder none too gently and said, "Talk to me, friend."

  He smiled. "I'll regret it, I know, but talk to me."

  Salmoneus looked at him with brown eyes so sad Hercules wanted to pop him. "Are you sure?"

  Hercules' look told him not to push it.

  Salmoneus took the point. "1 was in Athens," he began.

  It was intended to be a quick trip, primarily to collect an outstanding debt from a goldsmith of his acquain-tance. No problems there; the man paid, they went to dinner, talked about old times, and eventually, through no fault of Salmoneus', ended up at the amphitheater.

  That's where he discovered his destiny. His calling. His ticket to an earthbound Olympus, populated by himself and a zillion beautiful women instead of a bunch of cranky gods.

  "Have you ever been?" he asked. "To one of those performances, I mean."

  Hercules nodded. Carefully. Even the most innocuous of Salmoneus' questions often concealed traps.

  "I couldn't believe it. All those seats filled, all those boys and girls running around with food to sell, all those men outside selling admission—I nearly passed out from the excitement."

  "You're not..." Hercules couldn't bring himself to say it.

  Salmoneus laughed. "Good heavens, no. I'm not going to build an amphitheater. What kind of a dope do you think I am?"

  How much time do you have? Hercules thought, and pinched himself for it. Not, however, terribly hard.

  Salmoneus lifted a dramatic finger. ' 'These actors came out, all wearing the same clothes, each holding a mask in front of his face. It was a play." He made a face. "Something icky about frogs. But!" He shook the finger. " But, Hercules, the important thing was the people! I, being a democratic sort, sat in the cheap seats so 1 could observe my fellow man and take, as it were, the pulse of the populace." He glanced sideways. "And do you know what I learned?"

  Hercules refused to answer.

  The finger jabbed at the sky. "They were bored, Hercules! Bored out of their tiny Athenian skulls!"

  "Considering the play was about frogs, I'm not surprised."

  Salmoneus shook his head. That wasn't the point. The point, he explained, was that outside the amphitheater were musicians and other street performers, and there, there the people were having a grand, wonderful, absolutely marvelous time.

  "And," he added, lowering his voice, "they weren't from the city."

  He waited.

  Hercules waited.

  "You don't see it."

  "No."

  Salmoneus scratched at his beard. "They wanted to be entertained."

  "Okay."

  "They had to get it in the street, not in the amphitheater."

  "Okay."

  "They had to come to Athens to get the entertainment in the street, not in the amphitheater."

  Hercules held up a hand for a moment of silence while he tried to take a few leaps ahead, if only to shorten the story. When he landed, he said, "Ah."

  Salmoneus made a fist. "Ah."

  "Ah... what?"

  "Ah..." Salmoneus lifted the finger again. "What if someone were to bring the entertainment to the people, instead of the people going to the entertainment?' ' He held up a second finger. ' 'What if someone were to provide not only the entertainment, but the food?" He held up a third finger. "What if someone charged a modest fee for the food and the entertainment, and gave a portion of it to the community wherein the food and entertainment were ... uh... were."

  Hercules pinched himself again, this time because the idea almost actually made sense, and it was beginning to frighten him. Not the idea itself; the fact that it almost made sense.

  "You go to a small town or large village," Salmoneus explained, practically bouncing on the seat. "You provide what the Thracians call a 'vaudal,' an evening's show, and do you know what you have?"

  "A fortune?" Hercules guessed.

  "Vaudalville!" Salmoneus announced grandly, rising from his seat, arms and reins spread. "Get it?

  Vaudal, meaning entertainment; 'v ill,' from village." He laughed. "Laughs! Tears! Thrills! Wonders! And all for the price of a few measly dinars!"

  "Sit down," Hercules said.

  Salmoneus sat.

  "Vaudalville?" Hercules looked for the disaster, found the potential for several dozen without half working at it, and said, "No."

  "No? Again? No what?"

  "Principle," Hercules told him. "Just a matter of princi
ple."

  They rode on.

  Flovi began clearing his throat, testing his vocal cords for the notes buried there.

  "Six months," Salmoneus said at last.

  "Really?"

  "Six months, and you're not going to believe it, but it's working."

  Hercules waited until the temptation to say the obvious had passed. Then, before he knew what he was doing, he said, "So why do you need my help?"

  "Because I think somebody," Salmoneus answered, "is trying to ruin me." He shook his head at such a disgusting notion. "That's why I need you, Hercules. Strange things have been happening. Really strange things."

  Out of an acute sense of impending doom, Hercules declared that he didn't want to hear it.

  Salmoneus, whose only sense of doom was sparked by an empty purse or dinner table, told him anyway.

  4

  In the beginning, Virgil Cribus believed he had about the best job in the world. He traveled, he saw sights he had never dreamed he would see, he met all kinds of interesting people, and he alone was responsible for the arrangements that made the Salmoneus Traveling Theater of Fun such a great success.

  Lately, however, he figured he was lucky he still had his scalp.

  He supposed it was his face. He looked much younger than he really was, even with the splotchy beard he'd been trying to grow over the past couple of weeks. People just didn't feel much like beating up a kid. Which he wasn't. And until now, he had vehemently denied he was.

  So far, he had been lucky.

  He had arrived in the small town of Phyphe late last night. This morning, energized by decent sleep and a good meal, he had hit Phyphe like a hurricane. Fast talk, sincere smiles, a nudge and a wink, and by midday he had secured rooms for the entire vau-dalvillian troupe at a price Salmoneus would be proud of.

  The hardest part had been Dragar's place. The man insisted on remaining apart from all the others. "To practice, and to keep my secrets from being stolen'' was the reason. Luckily no one ever argued. He was, Virgil had to admit, a damn weird man, even for a magician, and the others were glad they didn't have to share the same roof with him.

  Having completed that task, Virgil ate a quick lunch and strolled to the center of town.