“So, that’s all I remember. She hit me, I guess,” Cactus finished. “When I woke up, I was here. I had a headache and a whole lot of bruises.”
Makes sense, Hercules was thinking. Slaughterius must be using Dryope and her girls to patrol the nearby forest. Another thought came to him. “Cactus, have you ever been to Mercantilius?”
Cactus looked up, his expression blank. “To where?”
“Never mind.” Hercules got up and stretched. He’s a likeable guy, he thought. He tells a great story. But is it true? I’ve never heard of Dryope clubbing anyone.
“Hercules!” Salmoneus pointed upwards. “We’ve got guests. I think they’ve been watching for a while.”
Hercules tilted his head back and looked up. The shaft framed a patch of night sky, with clouds drifting out of the square to uncover a filmy, white spray of bright stars.
Something dark blocked a corner of the square. It had an irregular shape, all round bumps. Hercules felt that he should recognize it.
“Hello, clown,” the black shape crooned, then slapped his cheek with a lazy hand. “Oh, I am so rude! That’s the wrong way to greet an old friend.” The voice changed, growing deeper. “I meant, hello, Hercules.”
Chapter 11
Slaughterius! Hercules thought. He fooled me. Put on that fake voice to make me think he was a weak-brained idiot. And I fell for it! ‘You’re a terrible faker, you know,” Slaughterius said. “We saw through that clown disguise right away.”
Another, feminine shape joined Slaughterius. Dryope linked her arm with the Pastoralian.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t remember you,” she asked in a steely voice, “after the way you rejected me last month?”
“That’s her!” Cactus whispered loudly. “That’s the woman who hit me!”
The dryad queen calmed herself. “I knew it was you right away.”
“Hold it,” Hercules said. “I haven’t seen you since that big party on Olympus last year. I didn’t reject you last month,” Hercules said. “I didn’t even see you last month.”
Dryope and Slaughterius sniggered. “Very funny,” the general sneered. “Next you’ll be telling me the earth isn’t flat.”
“Slaughterius,” Hercules called urgently, “please listen! The Mercantilians are going to attack at dawn. Ares is spreading lies to start a war. But—listen to me!—you can stop it. You can kill the lies, if you’ll just work together. I know they don’t trust you, so you’ll have to send them an ambassador, somebody neutral. Have them contact the Mercantilians. If you can just talk honestly—”
Slaughterius and Dryope laughed again. “Thank you for telling me their secret strategy, Hercules,” Slaughterius sang down. “Now, do excuse me. I simply must get ready to wipe them out.”
“So long, loverboy,” Dryope hissed.
The two black shapes receded from the grassy edge of the starry square.
“No, you fools! Come back!” Hercules yelled angrily.
Something rumbled above. “Just for that, I’ve got a little gift for you. I was saving it for the Mercantilians, but you can have it now.”
Hercules looked up. He was saving it? he thought. He knew about the war all along!
A round silhouette moved over the hole. It was a cauldron.
“Against the walls!” Hercules shouted.
At top speed, all three men jumped backwards. The slopping red fluid hit the centre of the rocky floor with a splash and a hiss. Cactus and Salmoneus shouted in alarm.
As the droplets bounced up from the floor and splashed on to his thigh, Hercules knew why. His skin stung as if it had been burned.
Acid!
That stuff’s not going to eat an escape hatch through the walls, Hercules thought. It’s not going to burn through the floor. It’s just going to eat us!
As the acid continued to pour down from above, rivers of red oozed from the middle of the floor towards every edge and corner. Salmoneus shifted his feet out of the path of one snaking flow, but the acid slid across the uneven floor, splitting into a dozen rivulets that chased him wherever he went.
The river hit Salmoneus’ toes. He wailed, dropping his torch. It fizzled in the acid and went out, leaving the room lit only by thin starlight from above.
Hercules slid around the waterfall of acid and ducked towards Salmoneus’ feet. He ripped acid-covered rocks from the floor. The acid fell away from Salmoneus and into the small crater.
Cactus shouted in alarm as the acid hit his feet. Hercules jumped over to him and started digging more rocks out of the floor, creating a new channel. The acid flowed away from Cactus, towards Hercules’ digging hands.
There was a huge slab sticking up in the uneven ground. Hercules grabbed it, hoping to pull it out, but the top edge just broke off in his hands. In frustration, he pounded the ground. The floor vibrated, as it had when he’d fallen on it.
Hercules’ mouth fell open. It shouldn’t do that. If that’s solid ground, it shouldn’t move. So, maybe it’s not the ground . . .
Hercules clasped his hands tight and swung them into the pit’s floor. He felt rock shatter and watched as jagged chunks floated to the surface of the shallow acid lake that now covered the floor and kept rising as more acid fell from above. The acid dissolved his sandals and started biting at his feet, but he continued to pound the floor.
“Hercules!” Salmoneus screamed.
Then the acid began to flow away. As the downpour from above began to ease off, the level of the acid dropped away. The same thing happened around Cactus.
The trickle from above slowed, then finally stopped. Salmoneus stared at the floor. There was a hole in it the size of Hercules’ fist. The last streams of acid slipped down the hole, hissing.
Through the hole, Hercules could see another pit, as deep as the one they were in. There was a creak from above. He looked up to see a fuzzy-edged square slide across the stars and fall into place with a thump. The pit was in total darkness once more. So much for that escape route.
Someone moaned.
“Salmoneus,” Hercules asked, “are you all right?”
“That wasn’t me. I’m too wiped out to moan.”
“Wasn’t me either,” Cactus offered.
The groan sounded again. It was coming from the hole in the floor.
“Stand back,” Hercules said. He slid his fingertips along the floor, searching for the hole. Suddenly his fingers hit empty air and he nearly fell over as his arm dropped into the hole. “Here it comes, guys,” Hercules warned.
With a two-handed yank, the world’s strongest man tore a thick chunk of floor out from under himself. The floor cracked and a jagged line ran to the wall where Cactus was slumped.
He heard the giant suck in a gasp. “You really are him,” he said softly. He sounded as if he were praying. “You’re Hercules.”
“You better believe it!” Salmoneus said.
Again, Hercules grabbed rock, ripping out chunk after chunk until the hole was wide enough for a man. A thin light came up from below. The groans sounded again. Whoever was down there was hurt.
“I’m going to investigate,” Hercules said. “Stay here until it’s safe.”
Hercules grabbed the edge. Hanging by his fingertips, he began to swing back and forth. With each swing, he pushed himself further, until his toes flew nearly to the ceiling.
One more swing, then he let go and he dropped. He landed just clear of a wide pool of acid and scrambled out of the way. His knees scraped across the rough stone floor.
For a moment, Hercules sat quietly on a rock. By Zeus, my skin hurts, he thought.
He looked around. The dark walls were lined with flaming torches. From around a curve up ahead, Hercules could hear the groan again—followed by the unmistakable slap of hand against flesh. Then there was a whimpering noise.
Hercules gritted his teet
h, flexed his fists—and stopped. It could be another trap. With agonizing slowness, he inched forward and peered around the corner.
Before him, the walls of the corridor stretched out long and straight, then curved inward until they almost touched. Light poured through the gap between the walls.
Hercules sidled towards the light. When he reached the curved end, he peered through the gap.
He saw a huge chamber, its walls and ceiling coated in the same slick metal that was in the pit. The chamber’s walls wove in and out, forming deep nooks and crannies. In the middle of the room, at least fifty feet in front of Hercules, sat a rectangular stack of hot rocks, colouring the walls with a spooky glow.
Behind the rocks stood a Pastoralian soldier, bulkier but shorter than Hercules. He wore a chain-mail shirt, a club hung from each hip and a bow and quiver of arrows were strapped to his back.
Although the soldier was facing towards Hercules, he didn’t seem to notice him. He was concentrating on an old man whom he was clutching by the scruff of the neck and holding towards the hot rocks.
The old man was very thin and wore a dirty set of rags that had no doubt once been a fine robe. A drop of sweat rolled down the old man’s grimy forehead and nose and fell on to the rocks. It sizzled, bubbled and vanished, leaving only a wisp of steam.
The old man looked familiar, but Hercules had no time to puzzle over his identity. He couldn’t let him be hurt by that bully. Trap or no trap, he was going in.
The old man looked up. Seeing Hercules about to spring, he started to mouth the word ‘no.”
Hercules sprinted towards the soldier. His target did not look up until the last minute. Just as the soldier saw Hercules, the old man swerved and wriggled out of the way. Reaching up, Hercules pulled the soldier down on to the rocks. There was a horrible scorching sound and the soldier yelled.
The old man squirmed backwards and ran towards a cranny in the wall. Hercules sprinted after him.
At that very moment, a club flew past Hercules’ shoulder and landed on the ground nearby. It had come from the cranny. The old man had disappeared into the shadows. Hercules chased after him.
Before Hercules could reach the cranny, a second soldier tumbled out, with the old man clasped around his legs. The pair landed at Hercules’ feet. He grabbed the soldier’s shoulders and pulled him off the ground.
The old man yelled and dived for the other soldier, who had recovered and was now trying to aim an arrow at Hercules. The soldier waved the arrow left, right, up and down, but the charging old man waved his arms and blocked him from getting a clear shot.
Still holding the second soldier in midair, Hercules saw the other’s bow stop bobbing. The soldier took steady aim at the old man’s chest. The second soldier grabbed for the club at his hip and swung it towards Hercules’ middle.
It never touched him, because Hercules flung the soldier into the air. He whistled over the old man’s head and crashed into the first soldier. He then grabbed both men, cracked their heads together and dropped them by the hot rocks. They looked surprisingly peaceful, dozing in the rocks’ sunset-red glow.
Hercules turned to face the old man, who was sitting on the ground. He trembled and wheezed, but his head was tilted up and his eyes were attentive.
Heavy footsteps behind him made Hercules whirl, but it was only Cactus.
“I heard you having a fight, so I came to help. Too late.”
“Great work, Hercules!” shouted the cheery voice of Salmoneus. “I knew you could do it! What a move! If you’d let me set up some gladiatorial battles, we’d make a fortune!”
Hercules bit back the unkind comment he was about to make and instead strode over to the old man.
He would have been quite tall if his shoulders weren’t bent and he hadn’t been shrivelled by neglect and rough treatment. He was very skinny. Grime and soot covered his fingers and the bottoms of his bare feet. His thin, nearly white hair was falling out; his beard was days old and straggly. When sudden coughs shook his body, Hercules half-expected to hear his bones rattle.
“Pardon me,” the old man rasped. His voice was scratchy and faint, but somehow deep at the same time. He smiled weakly at Hercules. “Dungeon life does wonders for the constitution.”
The old man seemed in remarkably good spirits. Hercules suddenly realized why he seemed familiar.
“You’re—” he began, but the old man was ahead of him.
“Yes, Hercules. I am Slaughterius.”
Chapter 12
“You need an explanation,” the old man said, smiling gently. “Come. Sit.”
“Several explanations,” Hercules agreed. They all sat down next to the old man. “If you’re Slaughterius, who’s up there?” he asked.
“Frankly,” the old man said, “that’s what I’d like to know too.” He coughed suddenly.
Some time ago, he said, rumours began spreading that the cows and sheep raised by the citizens of Pastoralis were unfit for human use. Sales dropped like a rock down a well. Since the Pastoralians made their living from their cows and sheep, they soon found themselves penniless. They couldn’t afford to buy anything from other cities, including food, clothing or any kind of comforts or luxuries. Pastoralians who could find work elsewhere soon did, leaving the town nearly empty of doctors, carpenters and other skilled craftsmen.
As leader, Slaughterius promised to fix the situation. Whenever tourists or traders came to town, he had his guards bring the visitors to him so that he could ask them about the rumours. They were willing to reveal it quite happily.
“Let me guess,” Hercules said. “It was Mercantilius.”
“Quite right.” The old man nodded.
In any event, Slaughterius met with Ferocious, the leader of the Mercantilians. The meeting slid into arguments, accusations and name-calling. Slaughterius, seeing that the two sides would only get angrier if they kept shouting in each other’s faces, took his people home.
That night, a squad of Pastoralian guards was on patrol around the city when someone attacked them with Mercantilian spears and stole their customized clubs.
“It was an act of war by the Mercantilians,” Slaughterius said. “At dawn, I sent an entire platoon of our best soldiers over the long forest ridge that separates our land from theirs.” He paused for a moment, staring at nothing. “I should have sent more men,” he muttered. “Maybe if I’d sent more men out on the attack, they wouldn’t have been . . .”
As Slaughterius buried his head between his fists, Hercules laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know,” he said gently. “The Mercantilians told me. They said that they turned your troops back.”
Slaughterius’ head swivelled. To Hercules’ surprise, the sadness had vanished, replaced by a sharp glare, a jaw as firm as granite and eyes dark with anger.
“Did they tell you how many they killed first?” Slaughterius demanded. “How many young lives they took? Thank Zeus the commander knew when he was defeated and brought the boys home. Enough of them were lost as it was.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a while.
Eventually Slaughterius continued in a softer voice. “We’ve always been so peaceful. Just shepherds and herdsmen. Our neighbours were always our trading partners, not our enemies. Oh, generations ago, before we discovered the benefits of trade and peace, we had wars—my ancestors dug this network of caves for us to hide in. I expanded them and moved many of my people into them when war looked likely.”
Slaughterius paused again and ran a hand through his straggly hair. Then he sucked in a deep breath and stood, his back straight, his eyes sharp. All at once Hercules could believe that he was looking at a ruler.
“After our defeat,” Slaughterius continued, “the only thing to do was counter-attack. But we had a few problems. We knew the Mercs could probably match us for troop strength. Plus we’d be fighting on their territory. So we needed
some special advantage.” He smiled ruefully, as if recalling some secret bit of foolishness that was almost amusing. He looked at Hercules, still smiling. “And then you came along.”
“It wasn’t me,” Hercules insisted.
Slaughterius raised an eyebrow. “Oh? He claimed to be Hercules and he certainly looked like you. Perhaps you have a twin?”
No, Hercules thought, just a half-brother named Ares. “There’s an impostor running around claiming to be me.”
Slaughterius nodded. “Ah, well . . . Anyway, back to my story. In planning that terrible first raid, I did at least one thing right. I instructed two of our men to let themselves be taken prisoner in order to get inside the Mercantilian camp and spy on it.
“They learned that a great hero was there, the mighty Hercules. We knew from travellers of Hercules’ nobility, his self-sacrifice, his willingness to fight for anyone with true need and a just cause.”
Hercules looked down and smiled, pleased but embarrassed. “Thank you. It’s nice to hear, but travellers sometimes exaggerate.”
“In any event,” Slaughterius continued, “my spies contacted this ‘Hercules.’ The next day, at dawn, when the town was asleep, the fake ‘Hercules’ knocked out the jail guards and freed my men. They brought him to Pastoralis.”
“I’ve heard part of this story,” Hercules said. “What happened next?”
“Well,” Slaughterius started, then paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “This “Hercules” was the most selfish, insulting, pig-mannered, girl-grabbing, ale-guzzling excuse for a hero I had ever seen!” Slaughterius scowled and his nose wrinkled. “He had bad breath too. Smelled like last night’s cheese!”
Hercules clapped a palm to his forehead. “No wonder they tossed me down here.”
“Well, no,” Slaughterius said. “Not exactly. When I met you—him—and heard my spies’ reports, I got suspicious. Not just because of y—his personal habits. I asked myself if I could really trust the lives of my people to someone who would sell out to the Mercantilians for food and women?” Slaughterius shook his head. “He must have noticed my reluctance to let him get involved in the war. He started bragging about how he’d led battles that had saved the towns of Itea, Levhadia and Navpatkos.”
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