As I sit in a wooden chair by his bed, I consider Hermes’s suggestion. Just as I wonder what Chiron would say if I brought my wine-sodden cousin to him, a shadow passes over Jason’s bed. I glance up then have to tilt my head even further to meet the gentle eyes of Maxinia, the head priestess of the Herenes.
"Another rough morning?" she asks.
"Cecilia says he got out into the courtyard last night and trampled over Euphemia’s gravel. Scattered it everywhere. You know how she can be. He’s lucky he passed out before she got a good grip on her rake, otherwise he’d be recovering from a beating instead of just his usual hangover."
"Her bad leg never has held her back." The big woman pauses as if reluctant to say something. This is it, I think. We’re being evicted. At Iolalus’s invitation I had come to Portaceae thinking only to stay a week or two, certain that the Herene medics would be able to whip my cousin out of the bottle and into shape. But apparently the effects of grief and betrayal are harder to heal than broken bones or a winter illness. The week turned into a month, then that month turned into a season.
The fruit trees in the courtyard of the House of Hera have transformed from barren twigs to branches swelling with buds and blooms. Although I’ve made brief trips back to Salemnos to check on the progress of the rebuilding and to see if there’s any sign of Penelope’s return, I’ve spent most of my time these past months living in the guest quarters of the House of Hera. I’m restless and impatient for my cousin to be well, but I haven’t minded staying here. Iolalus is one of my closest friends, even if he does look like the wrong side of a pig’s anus, and I’ve enjoyed being a part of the process of transforming Portaceae from the most impoverished polis in all of Osteria into a gleaming and vibrant place with a capital city to envy.
Not so Salemnos, not yet anyway. Jason lost his seat of power on the same day he learned of his children’s deaths. I suppose I can’t blame him for going a little insane. Thankfully, if it weren’t for the vigiles I called up to defend Portaceae last summer, Iolalus would have no polis to rebuild at all. I tease him about this, but his appreciation and gratitude are shown each time a band of engineers finishes with a project in Portaceae and he sends them to work on repairing the damage in Salemnos at his expense. I’ve enjoyed my role as unofficial advisor to my friend and manager of the work in Salemnos during Jason’s recovery, but I miss the physicality of vigile duty and would much rather be on guard at the city walls.
So, for the past three months, I’ve taken advantage of the Herenes’ healing arts, placed a drunken lout in their guest quarters, and accepted the gift of a new city. With the way Maxinia is staring at me, I have a feeling today is the day I’m finally going to be asked to pay up.
"Go on," I say to her. "I won’t trash the place if you tell us to go."
"It’s not me," she says defensively. "I think it will be easier for Iolalus to explain. He’s waiting in my office."
"Why did he not come get me himself?"
"You’ll see."
While it’s odd to see the big woman so apprehensive, after spending so much time here I know of only one thing that can unsettle this sturdy woman: Hera is here.
It’s ironic that her own priestess should be so frazzled by her, but when you serve a goddess whose moods shift faster than a winter mudslide, it can be a bit daunting for a newly selected head priestess to find her feet. Although Hera’s temper has been steadier lately, everyone knows that even if she shows up in a sunny mood, one wrong word risks blotting out that sun faster than a summer squall.
I follow Maxinia from the guest quarters—the right hand wing of the square complex that makes up the main portion of the House of Hera—to her office perched on the top floor of the rear wing. Walking along the hallway, I glance out to the courtyard at the center of the building to see Euphemia carefully tidying the gravel paths with her rake. Maxinia ducks her head to pass through the doorway to her office. She must be grateful the ceilings are so high in this magnificent complex of buildings that function almost like a city in miniature, complete with its own water supply, stables, milling stone, and store house. With a noticeable limp, Iolalus steps over and greets me by enfolding me in a warm hug during which he takes the opportunity to whisper, "Don’t argue with her." I know he doesn’t mean Maxinia.
Although she is silhouetted with her back to the window, Hera glows in a way only a god possibly could. Her natural brilliance makes it so she is never in shadow unless she chooses to be—and when she chooses to shadow herself, you know you’re in for a bad meeting. Her honey-blonde hair has been twisted and piled on her head in an arrangement more complex than any of Perseus’s sailor’s knots. She wears a gown that is simple in its silvery elegance and shows off the perfect feminine form of her body. I take all this in in a heartbeat—after all, vigiles are trained to quickly assess an opponent. I give a slight bow then meet her gold-flecked green eyes. I’m not put at ease when her eyes brighten with amusement. Instead, I have to wonder what deal she is here to make with me.
"I thought you conducted all your business in the gods’ room," I say.
Iolalus groans at my insolence. I should have said what an honor it was to be in her presence, perhaps even have gone to my knees to kiss the ring on her little toe, but I won’t. This is the goddess that spent weeks aiding my cousin and seeing him through all manner of danger, only to abandon him when he needed a god’s help the most.
"There is no gods’ room now that the Solon’s villa has been converted into a hospital," Maxinia says with a slight tremble in her voice.
Of course I know this. When he took the solonship, Iolalus gave the gaudy mansion of his predecessor to the Herene medics. Minor cases still get treated in the hospital wing of the House of Hera, but now all serious injuries are tended to in the impressive facility on the hill that looks over Portaceae City. The topmost floor of the Solon’s villa was once the only place Hera would meet with the Solon, but now that Iolalus lives within the heart of the city—and since his cousin Hercules did save Hera’s life—the stubborn goddess has consented to conducting meetings wherever it’s convenient for him, not her. Still, I won’t let Hera think she has the upper hand. I’m no god-denying kingdom dweller, but I care little for the gods. They are lost in their own pettiness at the times you need them most, and are meddlesome when you’d be better off without their mercurial attention.
"Must you forever be such a pain in the ass, Odysseus?" I don’t reply to her question. Hera arches her eyebrow at my silence, then continues. "I am here to tell you to take Jason to Chiron. The Herenes are skilled, but the centaur is wiser in ways to help illnesses of the mind. And, perhaps seeing his old teacher will bring your cousin back to himself."
I almost laugh at the words and have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from doing so. She and Hermes are such good friends they even think alike. Hera wouldn’t waste her time relaying a message that’s already been sent. If she’s suggesting what Hermes told me just this morning, I know for certain they aren’t speaking to one another. Having already considered Hermes’s suggestion on the way over here, I know it would be best to take Jason to Chiron.
But the truth is, I don’t want to leave Portaceae. According to the latest news I received, Penelope—my wife who has been traveling with her parents almost since the day we were married a year ago—may soon arrive in Portaceae. Her letters are few and slow to make their way to me. Too many times she has left a place just before I show up to it, but this news came from someone who spoke with Penelope’s parents only days ago. Penelope could be on her way here right now.
"Do you not think we should give the Herenes more time?" I ask.
Hera stares at me as if I’m an idiot. Of course she wouldn’t be here if she thought the Herenes were on the verge of a breakthrough with my cousin. I know I could ask Iolalus to take Jason to Chiron, but Jason is my family, my responsibility, and it should be me who escorts him to the centaur. Even my years of serving in and leading the Illamosian vigiles can
not stop my habitual upright stance from slumping at the shoulders at the thought of leaving Portaceae when Penelope could be here any day. Sometimes I think that every event in my life takes me farther from her. And I swear Hera’s face holds the slightest hint of gloating at the defeat that must be obvious in my expression.
"When should we go?"
"There’s no need to linger here, is there?" Hera asks and snaps her fingers to produce two travel passes, the pieces of parchment that allow Osterians to cross the borders between poli. I take them from her and notice they are blank. These are open passes, meaning we can travel to any polis or kingdom and be gone for as long as we need. In the days of Iolalus’s predecessor who issued travel passes as if they were rarer than rubies, these passes would have been worth more than the cost of a new home. They are still valuable for their convenience, but we won’t be risking our lives having them in our possession.
"Let him stay until morning," Iolalus offers. "The roads are safer now than they were last year at this time, but there’s no need to send him out this late."
"Quite right," Maxinia adds. "Besides, it will give the kitchen time to pack them some food for the journey."
Even though I know travel food means hard rolls and chewy strips of dried meat, I’m glad Hera is not getting exactly what she wants.
"Do you want me to tell Jason?" Iolalus asks.
"No, let him sleep. He probably won’t remember any conversations he has today anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do." Ignoring protocol that says an Osterian should either wait for permission to depart from a god’s presence or the god should be the first one to exit, I turn my back on Hera and leave the room.
* * *
In the morning I save the stablehands some work by going down to saddle and ready the horses. From behind me comes the stuttered yet rhythmic crunch of Iolalus limping across the courtyard’s gravel pathways.
"Thought I’d walk over to say my goodbyes."
"Don’t worry, I’m not making off with the furniture," I say as I give my horse’s cinch a final tug. "It’s going to be strange leaving here."
"I’m sure I’ll be seeing your ugly face sooner than I want," Iolalus says. "Chiron isn’t that far from here, is he?"
As grandsons of a Solon, Iolalus and his cousin Herc had the chance to attend Chiron’s school, but, with their older cousin in line for the Solonship, their most likely career path would have been—and was—to serve as vigiles: the police, army, and fire fighting force of Osteria. As such, their mothers chose to educate their sons amongst the boys they would be serving with and sent them to public school.
"A couple days’ ride. And if Penelope shows up—" I trail off. I want nothing more than to see her, to give up all this nursemaid business, to stop roaming aimlessly, and to hide away somewhere with my wife who I’ve barely seen since our wedding day.
"I’ll lock her in the Portacean jail until you return."
"Good luck keeping her there. Your guards will be begging you to release her once they get a taste of her temper." My heart warms at the memory of Penelope’s strong character.
After a few more words and an update on which work crew will head to Salemnos next, Iolalus shakes my hand goodbye and offers me a place to stay whenever I need one. I thank him. Watching him make his way toward the Peacock Gate, I see he is having a good day—his limp is barely noticeable and he hasn’t even brought his cane. It’s a reminder that even physical injuries take time to heal and can worsen or improve from day to day.
In his room, Jason guzzles water from a jug that one of the acolytes has left for him. His gut gurgles with the sudden rush of liquid and I wonder how many dashes into the hedges he will be making on today’s ride. At his feet sits his satchel that is stuffed with his belongings and the pelt of Colchis that at one time seemed so important to obtain. Although legends claim that whoever holds the pelt of Colchis will rule Osteria, I find the satchel itself to be of more use. A gift from Hera when she favored Jason, it can hold vast amounts of belongings with only the slightest bulge and without seeming to weigh any more than when empty, a boon for any traveler.
"Why are my things in here?" he asks. Even his voice sounds woozy.
"Because the Herenes are sick of you. Euphemia told me they think you look uglier than the crotch of a geriatric harpy and they can’t stand the offense to their eyes any longer."
He looks at me, clearly unsure if I’m kidding or not.
"I just need some wine and then I’ll be ready."
"No. I don’t want you falling off your horse." I pondered all night how we were going to get through this ride. Unfortunately, Chiron’s Fields aren’t located on a rail line. Although Osteria’s train is painfully slow, if my cousin fell out of his seat, he wouldn’t suffer too much harm; if he falls off his horse, who knows how badly he could hurt himself. "For now, you get tea. Then, after every ten miles, you get a cup of wine." Contradictory as it might seem, if I can motivate him with drink, I may just be able to keep him sober enough to stay mounted.
"One cup?"
"The faster you ride, the sooner you can drink another." He reaches for a wine jug, shakes it to test its weight, then tips it up to his lips. I start to protest, but thankfully, it’s already empty.
He groans like a sulky child, but picks up his satchel and follows me down the stairs to the courtyard. I observe my cousin in the morning light. His hair, which is normally cropped short like any vigile, has grown several inches since we’ve been here, but he has neither the habit, nor the desire these days to keep it brushed or clean. With the disheveled hair, gaunt cheeks, and tunic that should have been changed three days ago, Jason, despite being King of Illamos Valley, seems out of place amongst the tidy Herenes and their vibrant courtyard.
A young boy soon emerges from the direction of the Herene stables with our two horses. Jason eyes the animals in confusion. My horse is a vigile steed—small and nimble and built for speed. For Jason, I’ve left his vigile mount in its stall and instead have chosen a workhorse—wide and big and probably only ever in a rush to get to a bucket of oats. Fearing my cousin’s balance might be off, my hope is that the broad back of this horse will be as easy to stay on as a sofa.
Motivated by the promise of wine, my cousin thankfully doesn’t argue and swings up into the saddle as if this, rather than waiting for the first tavern to open, is his usual morning routine. My choice of horse is proven a wise one when the sudden motion leaves Jason swaying and his cheeks turn from red to a sickly shade of green. I’m ready to help him if he falls off, but keep enough distance in case he throws up. When no vomit appears and he has settled woozily on his mount, I hoist myself into my saddle.
Moving with a noble grace despite her size, Maxinia hurries from the kitchen wing of the complex carrying a pair of bulging travel packs.
"There’s water and fresh apple cider to drink," she says, eyeing me knowingly. I understand her meaning: There’s no wine in the bags.
"Thank you, Maxinia, and thank you for watching over him."
"I only wish we could have done more."
You kept him from killing himself, I think.
After our goodbyes we ride out of the Peacock Gate and through Portaceae City along Hera Way to the Osterian Road. My cousin’s head turns longingly at each tavern we pass and I notice some of the proprietors look dismayed at his departure. Although a complete drunkard these days, one thing can be said in favor of my cousin: He always pays his tab.
I keep my promise and, after every tenth mile marker, allow Jason a cup of wine at the first tavern we come upon. I would have liked to keep him off the grape entirely, but he has indulged too much for too long and completely cutting him off would leave him too sick to travel. At night, I insist we make camp off the road rather than in inns. I’m not taking any chances by lodging in a room above a place whose shelves are lined with wine and whose kegs are full of beer.
In the late afternoon of the third day, we’re greeted with a sight neit
her of us has seen since we were teenagers: Chiron’s Fields. They’re called fields, but it’s actually a complex of small huts and buildings around a central grassy courtyard the size of most cities’ agoras. Surrounding the complex is a true field of tall grass and meadow flowers just beginning to bloom. This stretches about a quarter mile until it ends at the edge of a forest. Within the courtyard, a group of five children who look to be about eight years old are racing out of one of the buildings. Even Jason perks up at the sight.
"Do you think they’ve just been released from math or from history?" he asks. The question surprises me, not so much for its subject, but for the fact that this is the first time my cousin’s voice has held any sense of curiosity in months.
"Rhetoric," says a deep voice that sounds ancient but not old. Despite their training, our horses shy and step away from the centaur. Jason and I quickly dismount. Chiron has never said anything against it, but I always feel awkward being on horseback around him or any of the other centaurs who’ve served as vigiles with me. "So, you’ve made it. Hera said you were coming, but I never trust her. Come on then," he says turning around gracefully. "Leave your horses. They won’t stray beyond the field."
I don’t ask how he knows this. I’ve never been certain exactly what skills Chiron has. Without a doubt he is the most intelligent mortal being in all of Osteria. And it seems as if he has always been here. Records dating back a century show he was educating highborn children even then. I’ve never witnessed him working any magic, but he is a skilled healer and some of the herb lore he knows and teaches borders on the realm of sorcery, so I wonder if Chiron has put some enchantment on the forest that keeps the horses from wandering, or does he just assume the steeds are too stupid to venture off?
It was Chiron who, understanding his fellow centaurs’ need to become part of Osterian society, turned the half-man-half-horse beings of Osteria from vicious, drunken brutes to the most respected members of any vigile troop. As he does with even the slowest child, Chiron always sees the potential in a person and he knew the centaurs needed to and could raise themselves to something more than frowned-upon nuisances if they were to have any life amongst humans. I now hope he can find and rekindle a similar potential in my cousin.
The Maze of Minos Page 7
