The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles

by Tammie Painter

  He steps back staring blankly ahead. The arena darkens as heavy, black-grey clouds roll over the city.

  “Do you wish to confess?” I ask.

  “I remember none of it,” Herc says. “I cannot confess. I can’t believe I did these things. You know I loved them.” His throat catches and this time he does cry. I scan the crowd and roll my eyes when I notice more than a few people are also in tears.

  “Because someone has witnessed against you and because of the severity of the case—”

  “Please,” Iolalus interrupts. “Please, he could pay tribute. He didn’t—”

  “Shut up, Iolalus,” Herc says gently. Iolalus opens his mouth as if to say more, but then clenches his jaw forcing himself into silence.

  “Are we done with the interruptions?” I pause and the arena remains hushed. “Because of the severity of what you’ve done, you will face the traditional punishment for a blood crime.”

  Herc doesn’t flinch, no expression registers on his face. He had to have known his fate the moment he was arrested.

  “As the day is late,” I say, my mouth dry with the thought of the copious amounts of wine in my near future. Certainly I can’t be expected to forego my party just to witness my cousin be buried alive. Besides, the thick bank of clouds scream rain is on the way and I don’t want to loiter at the blood crime vault getting soaked when I could be with Karadimos getting sauced. “You will be held until tomorrow when justice will prevail. Take him to jail. In the cart.”

  At that, at the order to use the cart, Herc’s body trembles. Truly trembles. I can see the muscles twitching, his legs shaking. How he does hate confined spaces. He has my mother to thank for that. Although my father doted on him, my mother had no love for Herc—the primary threat to her only son’s future position. When my father wasn’t around, any minor wrong—a towel placed incorrectly, a cup left out, a garment dirtied—earned my cousin the cruel and unusual forms of punishment she had developed especially for the child of her older sister. Punishments that apparently still scar him.

  The sky begins spitting rain. My silks will not fare well in such weather. To hurry the close of the trial, I ignore the list of formalities I’m supposed to go through such as describing the history of the punishment, how the gods make their judgment, and an assortment of other mundane trivia. Instead, I stand, tap the scepter another three times to close the trial, and turn to leave.

  “Please,” Herc calls. “Allow me a vigile’s death. Here. Now.”

  Is his fear so bad that he can’t handle the thought of a night in a jail cell? Or can he not live another twelve hours with the guilt of what he’s done?

  “Come on,” someone yells from the crowd. “Show mercy.” The crowd joins in on this plea. Are they mad? Only moments ago they’d been calling him a monster.

  I hesitate, stopping just at the edge of the ramp. A quick slice to the throat and Herc the Hero would no longer be a threat to my position. The vigile’s death would have him out of my way as well as saving me the bother of getting up early tomorrow morning to witness his burial. Certainly, to let him take the knife now will involve a few rituals I’ll have to pretend to be interested in and there will be a handful of documents to sign, but Karadimos should have enough wine to last if Adneta and I show up an hour or so late. It would be worth missing out on the start of the reverie to be rid of this fallen hero before me.

  I turn back, ready to agree to the request, to let Iolalus open Herc’s throat and be done with the matter. I raise the scepter. Just as I am about to call the trial back to order, I recall Hera’s words not to let my cousin take the easy way out. In matters relating to Herc, her most hated mortal, I don’t dare go against the goddess’s commands no matter how tempting.

  With a flick of my wrist, I tuck the scepter under my arm and continue down the ramp trying to move as calmly, as regally as possible. But when the crowd erupts in angry shouts, I scurry to the carriage and slam the door behind me.

  3

  HERC

  “Let’s go, Herc,” Iolalus says as he guides me to the cart that’s still hitched to its horse outside the arena. I can’t control the shaking in my muscles. My breaths come in short gasps as my heart thuds a rapid beat in my ears. My legs freeze refusing to step inside the dark confines of the cart. Iolalus looks around. “Eury’s gone. I’ll let you walk, if that’ll be easier.”

  I don’t deserve easy. I deserve the worst torments ever imagined.

  I curse myself for my earlier plea for a vigile’s death. Did my children get to choose how they died? Did they get to live without fear in their last moments in this world?

  I step up to the walled cart. Without question, Iolalus unlocks the door and pulls it open. My legs weaken as the hinges let out a howling creak. Even with the door gaping wide, the cell’s interior remains murky. What light does get in shows the remnants of webs and casings from spiders that have been decorating the box since its last use.

  “You don’t have to,” Iolalus says.

  “Yes, I do.” I climb inside ducking my head down to fit in the cramped pen. I pull the door shut after me. The harpy-like noise of its hinges grates on my ears and blasts ice down my spine. The box, built for an average sized man, pins me in, forcing me to contort my shoulders. Even this doesn’t ease the pressure of the wood walls against my sweaty skin that has chilled with fear. The chill doesn’t last long. Still hot from sitting in the sun, the stagnant air of the cell turns to stifling with my harried breathing.

  But I deserve this and every other discomfort the minds of gods and men can devise.

  Elena saw me do it. The woman who had given me strawberries from her garden in the spring and tomatoes in the summer, who had cared for my children and me after Meg died. She saw my hands on my babies’ throats. She heard the screams of their last breaths. She witnessed at my trial and Iolalus confirmed it. She knows more about the deaths of my children than I do. And that, that I don’t even recall any of the deed, notches what I have done to another level of unforgiveable.

  So, as the cart jostles along driving splinters into my flesh, I know I have brought every piece of mental and physical anguish the gods can muster upon myself.

  From outside the cart I can hear the clipping of centaurs’ hooves. They will be surrounding the cart, guarding their prisoner. People must have already spilled out of the arena to line up along Portaceae’s rutted roads. Despite their near silence in the arena, they now find their voice in shouts, jeers, and pleas.

  “Kill the bastard monster.”

  “How could you?”

  “Set our hero free.”

  I wrench my hands up to cover my ears, but the moment my palms come near my face the feral scent of dried blood hits me. Which of my children’s blood is it? Or have they all mingled?

  Slowly the shouts die down. We will be passing through Portaceae City’s gates and into the surrounding land outside the city walls. Rather than follow the distance to the jail, the people of the city will return to whatever work they had been occupying themselves with before the call to the arena sounded.

  Not long after the cries of the people die away, the cart lurches to a stop. A key clatters in the lock and Iolalus greets me with a reassuring smile. I peel myself out of the box. My shoulders throb from the pressure and the pieces of wood that have embedded themselves into my skin. The humid conditions inside the cart nearly match those outside. Even if the heavy clouds give no more rain, the looming pressure in the air signals an electrical storm is on its way.

  After releasing the other vigiles from their duty for the day, Iolalus leads me into the jail, a small stone building on the outskirts of Portaceae City. The structure had once been the home of Portaceae’s founder, but as Portaceae City, the capital of the polis, grew up closer to the junction of the Illamos and Great Rivers, the house found a new purpose: to keep prisoners outside the city walls.

  Before stepping through the door, I look into the distance. On the horizon stands Hera’s temple silhouett
ed by the last light of this long day. Also built at the time of Portaceae’s founding, the temple was poorly located and found itself barred from inside the capital’s walls. The temple keeps itself at a distance as if the goddess expects the people of the city to come to her.

  With morbid fascination, I can’t pull my eyes away from the aloof structure. Tomorrow I’ll be taken there to be sent under. They will lock me into a metal coffin that is even smaller than the walled cart, lower me into the stone-lined blood crime vault, seal it off, and leave me there for the turn of one moon. I will face a fear that will be miniscule compared to what my children must have endured. It will be up to the gods to decide my innocence. If I survive, I didn’t do those horrible acts. If I die, then the gods’ justice will have been served. I have no doubt the gods will take me. And, as I now have nothing to live for, I don’t care.

  Iolalus takes me to a cell, a true cell this time with bars, bunk beds, dank smell of wet stone, and faint light coming through a high window. The small quarters would normally pique my fear, but after being in the cart, the cell greets me like a spacious relief. Iolalus slides back the barred gate and I enter. Before I can turn around, the gate rattles and closes with a crash.

  My cousin reaches his hand through the bars. I take it. The calluses on his fingers from pulling the strings of many bows rub against my palm. Instead of shaking it, he just holds my aching hand in his comforting me and making my heart swell with agony and gratitude.

  “I guess our boar hunt is off?” he asks with a weak smile.

  The boar. After weeks of the animal ravaging fields and attacking people in the wooded grove of Forested Park, the vigiles had tracked him to his lair. Iolalus and I were supposed to have led a team this evening to capture the beast and was why I’d donned my treaded sandals. I recall the bloody marks the tread left on the floor of my home. The taste of bile fills my mouth again at the memory. After letting the bitterness burn my tongue a moment, I force the foul substance back down.

  “I suppose it is. Take a group tomorrow. Make a feast of the thing.”

  “Is there anyone you want to see?” Iolalus asks as tears well in his eyes.

  “No.” Who would I ask for? Everyone I love is dead except for him.

  “The people always wanted you, you know that don’t you? There’s been word among the vigiles of ousting Eury and making you Solon.”

  I had heard the rumors. Several legions of Portaceae’s vigiles were said to be plotting a coup. They want to remove Eury—and I have no doubt the removal would be violent. By the laws of Portaceae, as the next oldest male in Nikos’s line I would inherit the Solonship if Eury dies. The mere mention of the coup or of anyone else being Solon is treason and I had given express orders for the men and centaurs under my command to have no part of it. We have a duty to the Solon that must be upheld regardless of how little we like the man. Had Iolalus gone against my orders?

  “A good thing they didn’t. They would have been ruled by a man even worse than our cousin. At least he’s just lazy. I’m—” I trail off, unable to give voice to what I have proven myself to be. A monster, just as I’d been named so many years ago.

  Iolalus gives a disapproving sigh. I pull my hands out of his and wipe my eyes. Only after do I wonder if I’ve painted my face by streaking the blood from my hands through my tears.

  “Gods be with you, Herc.”

  “Hera protect Portaceae.”

  Iolalus snorts. “Hera’s a bitch, Herc. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Despite everything, I laugh at his blasphemy and at the fact that I won’t live long enough to forget anything ever again.

  He steps back, gives the sharp bow a vigile gives to a senior member, stands straight, and marches off. As second-in-command under me, he will now advance to vigile leader. He’s young, but it’s a post he will take to with ease and plenty of support. Watching him as long as I can through the bars, I notice him wipe his own eyes then touch his hand to the charm that dangles from a leather lace around his neck before he disappears out of my view.

  I turn to look at the cell. Suddenly it seems too small, too confined, and the consuming rush of panic hits me. My hand automatically flies to my own charm—a peacock that clutches a dozen arrows in its feet and symbolizes my status as commander of Portaceae’s vigiles. Seeking comfort from the familiar object, I grip the metal bird so tightly the twelve arrows pierce into my palm sending my own blood trickling across my hand. As the walls of the cell creep in on me, I press myself up against the frigid bars as if I can squeeze myself out between them. The metal gate clatters as tremors rattle through my body

  Just as I’m about to cry out for someone, a pair of legs swings over the edge of the top bunk. The mattress squeaks as a man sits up and peers at me. The faint evening light that trickles through the window glints off the man’s bald head. He reaches for something. Without more light, I can’t see what he’s stretching for and tense my muscles ready for an attack. With a hiss, the cell bursts with brightness that quickly fades to a warm glow.

  “We’re not supposed to have candles, but it’s not like anyone checks.”

  With the candlelight near his face I can now see he’s old, not as old as Elena, but still creased with wrinkles that extend like a delta from his eyes and carve river beds along the sides of his mouth.

  “I heard what your friend there said about Hera,” he says. His voice has a thick, yet melodic sound to it. He isn’t from Portaceae. A polis up north perhaps.

  “I’m sorry, he meant no offense.” Talking to someone helps ease my panic, although I can still feel it trying to pierce the gauze-thin layer of calm I’ve draped over myself. “May I?” I point to the wooden bench on the wall opposite the bunks.

  “Be my guest. Name’s Stavros Paulos.” It’s odd hearing someone introduce himself without including his father’s name. After spending a lifetime without having one to attach to mine, I can’t say I don’t mind the omission. “And I’m not offended. Hera is a bitch, from all I hear. Ya hear that?” He shouts at the window, “A bitch.”

  “Quiet. You’ll draw her wrath.”

  “Meh, she’s too busy to notice.”

  “Busy?”

  “It’s the only sense I can make for the state of this polis. I used to come to Portaceae as a kid. My family took vacations here. I know little ‘uns embellish things in their memories, but I’ve got a postcard back home that proves Portaceae used to be one of the grandest poli there ever was. You had the most beautiful, most enviable, wealthiest city in all Osteria. Buildings gleamed, roads were so smooth they seemed like they were paved with marble and the people – oh, the people. I swear it on the gods’ robes, you were the some of the most attractive people my eyes have been blessed to land on, second only to the Vancusians. Now you lot are a disheveled mess, your polis is in a downward financial spiral, and you can’t blink without a building falling on you.”

  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, but hearing it from an outsider bristles my already frayed nerves.

  “Why are you here then?” I ask curtly.

  “Here jail or here Portaceae?”

  I shrug. “Both.”

  “I’m here in jail because I stole a loaf of bread.”

  “Stealing’s not a crime where you come from?”

  “It’s a crime across Osteria, but what’s a man to do? That python of a Solon you have has squeezed this polis tighter than Hera’s twat. I’m not sure if Hera herself could wring out a single drachar after his management of this polis, not that she’d try. She’s neglected you all. You know that, don’t you? You do, but you won’t admit it. The city’s in disrepair. I know, I know.” He holds up his hands to stop my defense. “It’s the earthquakes. But every polis is seeing an increase in them. Still, when one happens where I come from, if a building falls, we build it again, better and stronger than before. You Portaceans just seem to leave them weakened until they collapse on your heads. And that’s why I stole. My daughter and grandchildren live here.
Their building fell a few weeks ago. Her husband was killed and they’ve been left with nothing. Since Portaceae doesn’t give out free bread like most other poli, they were near starving. I stole some bread to fill their empty bellies. Hera forgive me.”

  He pauses for a moment. Whether to catch his breath or let his words sink in, I’m not sure. It’s true, my cousin has done little for the polis, but has he been taking wealth from it? Is Hera blind to his faults and crimes or does she allow them? I don’t have time to form answers to these questions as Stavros continues talking.

  “To add dung to the pile, I’m a scapegoat. That’s why I’m here in Portaceae, not home in Athenos where you’d think being an engineer would count for something.”

  I recall the term scapegoat from school. Portaceae doesn’t follow the ritual, perhaps because if we kicked someone out for a year, they wouldn’t come back. The idea was that each year one person would symbolically take on all the state’s sins and leave the polis for one year. Over the year, the sins would fall away from the scapegoat who, at the end of the year, could return to his polis as another scapegoat took his place. It had always seemed an odd idea to me, but the prospect of traveling to other poli drew my interest. And now, the idea of ridding myself of sin appeals as much to me as nectar to a bee.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re familiar. Your eyes, maybe.” He squints at me in the candlelight. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Herc Dion, short for Hercules.” I rise up and extend my hand. He doesn’t take it and instead shifts about on the bed causing it to cry out in mousy squeaks.

  “I’m, oh, I’m sorry,” he stammers. “Your cousin.”

  “Calm yourself, I’m not his spy.” I extend my hand again and this time he shakes it. His hand is knobby, but the skin feels smooth.

  “That’s it, your grandfather was Nikos. I remember seeing him in person when I was a boy. Your face, strong just like his. He was much admired.”