Cursing every step, I climb the stairs to the villa’s third floor for the second time today. At least the burning in my thighs distracts me from thoughts of Adneta. Once to the top of the stairs, I pause to pull each heel to my butt to release the tension searing the front of my legs.
This had better be good.
A bead of sweat drips into my eye as I turn the knob to enter the Gods’ Room. With the setting sun forcing its way through a gap in the black clouds, the Gods’ Room is bathed in orange light as if every window holds a roaring fire. Hera’s gown shimmers like copper as she turns to me.
“Guilty?” she asks.
“Quite. Witnessed by his—”
“Fine, fine.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hand and a bottle of sparkling wine appears alongside two fluted glasses on a mirrored table. I examine the bottle and nearly drop it. It’s the finest vintage in all of Osteria. Worth a thousand drachars, but most dealers squeeze at least twelve hundred from wealthy buyers. I pop the cork and take a swig before filling the two glasses. Hera’s face houses a conspiratorial smile that only makes her more captivating.
“To Herc,” she toasts. We clink our glasses and she takes a few small sips. “Have you sent him under yet?”
“In the morning. I have a party to attend.”
The news brings an event as rare as a summer blizzard: Hera allows a genuine smile to take over her face from eyes to chin.
“Oh, that will be bad for him. A night in a tiny cell.” She takes another sip as I refill my glass. “But he won’t be sent under.”
I drop the flute. Being an object of the gods, it doesn’t break, but the champagne hisses its bubbles across the floor.
“It’s the law,” I argue. “The law of Osteria. Blood crimers are sent under.”
“I don’t want him dead, you silly oaf. I want him to suffer, to beat him down until he is a shred of a man.” She pauses for a sip. “Let him live with the guilt of what he’s done. Let him pay tribute.”
“Tribute?”
Her words make no sense. Could one glass of bubbling alcohol have muddled her head? Tributes are the punishment for minor crimes. When someone is convicted of a crime such as stealing or property damage, he’s held in jail until a job that will use his skills to benefit the polis is found for him. Tribute service is never used for blood crimes. But something nags at me about the idea. A hint of possibility.
“Yes, tribute. Send him in for the worst, the harshest, the most dangerous tasks you can come up with. Not just one, but—” she waves her hand dismissively as she thinks of a number, “—ten. Yes, ten should drive the pain in, bring him down a few notches.”
“And I can choose these labors?”
“Of course, I have some ideas, but honestly, I don’t want to waste much time thinking about Hercules Dion.” A scowl crosses her face at the mention of Herc’s name—words she rarely lets slip last her lips. She gulps down the rest of her glass’s contents as if to rinse from her mouth the vileness of my cousin’s name.
Ten labors. Ten chances for me to send Herc to do whatever I want. Thank the gods for Hera’s vindictiveness. Perhaps, my idea of using Herc to my benefit has been blessed by the gods. With these labors, he can procure unimaginable treasures for Adneta. Gods, she will love me until I can no longer stand.
My good mood dispels as quickly as fog in wind.
There is still the problem of my cousin being left alive. He could be useful, but I can’t have him stirring up people’s approval again once the tasks are over. There has to be a way out. My memory of the laws my grandfather tried to drill into me is rusty, but I still recall fragments of a few.
“The law states if the tribute can’t be paid,” I recite pacing the room to wake up my memory, “such as if he fails one of these tasks or refuses to complete them, he will have to face the original punishment he was sentenced to. In fact, I’m certain I can ensure the final task will be something he can’t complete.”
Hera purses her lips and taps her fingers against her glass. “I don’t know. I like him alive. There’s no way to torment the bastard if he becomes—if he dies.” A look of annoyance clouds over her and I know her momentary good mood has died away. “Why is my glass empty?” She waggles her glass at me and I fill it to the rim. In two swallows the drink is gone. I take another deep swig from the bottle and pour the remainder of the wine into her glass. “Besides, it’s always been a wonderful distraction to bring him pain. I thought I’d done well by ensuring you were born first and denying him the Solonship, but when I got him to kill his own offspring—” Her words are cut off by a snort of laughter.
I stare at her.
“You did that? You killed his children?”
“No, he did that. I just made him,” she holds the thumb and forefinger of her free hand a finger’s width apart, “a tiny bit insane so he’d do it.” She downs the last drop of wine and the glass disappears. “He’s still guilty.”
She must be mad, but her madness could get me what I want and, in the end, I will make certain I am rid of Herc regardless of how entertaining Hera finds him.
“And Zeus won’t interfere to help his son?” I ask.
“He never has.”
“You and Herc are two sides of the same coin. Both abandoned by the great Zeus.”
Hera’s eyes flare. The bright green- and gold-flecked irises ignite into hot embers. The scorching burst only lasts a moment, but it is enough to make me regret my cocky observation.
“Never compare me with the bastard. Remember, I made you Solon. I can just as easily change the laws and make someone else Portaceae’s ruler.”
I bow low. I want nothing more than to be out of the room, to be dressed in my finery, to lose myself in Adneta’s mouth, and to get to the evening’s festivities. But most of all, I want away from Hera before she sets her wrathful hatred on me.
“I never forget, my goddess. Now,” I say picking up my glass and placing it on the table, “I must go.”
“To your whore?”
“I made her my wife,” I say jovially. “You have no reason for complaint.”
“Yes, but you tested every girl in the brothel before settling on her.”
“Comparison shopping.”
Thankfully, the rage has passed as quickly as it came and she chuckles at the jest.
“Go, then,” she says dismissing me.
“Must I tell him now? I have plans for this evening I’d hate to miss.”
She thinks for a moment. The conspirator’s smile returns.
“No, let him linger.” Having pronounced her final command of the day, Hera disappears from the room leaving behind only a cloud of mist in the shape of her body. With one hearty puff, I scatter the form into nothing.
Karadimos’s party runs to such a late hour that the sky is already losing the blackness of night by the time I fall into a drunken slumber in my bedchamber. When Baruch tries to wake me at dawn, I fall back to sleep unable to pull my wine-heavy body from the bed. The sun is fully up and blaring the room with brightness when he jostles me awake saying I’m late. I wrench myself out of the bed that threatens to swallow me back into slumber. When I force myself to stand upright, my head throbs like it’s just been kicked by a mule.
“Where are you going, my stallion?” Adneta asks drowsily.
“I must be off to see my cousin. He’s probably crapping stones right about now.”
“Bring me something,” she murmurs. She is snoring again before I enter my dressing room.
I’d bring you the world, my sweet, if I could. Since I can’t, my cousin will do it for me.
5
IOLE
When Maxinia returns with news of the trial, I can only think she has misunderstood, that she is reporting rumors, that she is teasing me for missing the trial. I should have attended. I shouldn’t have sent her in my place, but the peacocks, the stupid sacred peacocks had been disturbed by something and were out of control. None of the acolytes can handle the birds when they hav
e these fits. Ever since the Solon’s cruelty to one of their flock, the peacocks only respond to me and if I don’t calm them, they end up injuring themselves. As bothersome as these arrogant animals are, I hate to see any of them harmed. My blood still roils over Eury’s betrayal. To say he wanted to understand them better, feel more in touch with Hera by being alone with them only to steal one for that, that wife of his. Disgraceful.
I try to tell myself Maxinia’s news is a joke, but it still keeps me from sleeping. This will be my first time sending someone under and I don’t know if I could face it even if it the convicted wasn’t Herc Dion. Rather than sleep, I spend the darkest hours of the night pacing my rooms, tidying up books, and rearranging ledgers hoping activity will push away my unease. It doesn’t.
As the head priestess of the Herenes it is part of my duties to call on the gods to judge the convicted, to be there to hear the person’s final words whether they be for god or man, and to seal off the blood crime vault before it is lowered into the consecrated ground of the temple. I will also have to come back a moon’s turn later to see what choice the gods have made. The thought churns my stomach. I retch into my chamber pot, then plunk down into the chair at my desk too woozy to continue my restless fidgeting.
When the ink of the sky changes from black to deep blue, I rise to prepare myself for my official duties. Acolytes, women who live with the Herenes but who are not part of the order, bathe me. Then Estia, a woman from the Califf Lands far south of Osteria, dresses my hair in a flat braid down my back. In silence, they wrap a white length of linen fabric around my body. The fabric is cut to be fitted at the top and flare at the bottom and is impossible for me to wrap properly on my own. I tried once with embarrassing results when I opened my office door to Maxinia and the dress slipped right off.
Once the garment is on, Estia secures it by attaching silver peacock brooches at the shoulders and cinching a belt of embroidered silver cloth at the waist. I remain barefoot, but Estia—always mindful of the small details—slips a small silver ring over one of my toes.
My horse, a large grey mare that belonged to the head priestess before me, is saddled and ready when I retrieve her from the stables situated behind the main building of the Herene complex. Despite Maxinia’s offer of company, I choose to ride alone to my duty.
As it does every time I see it, Hera’s temple fills me with wonder. Perched alone in its field, the building stands as if proud of its aloof state. Leading up to the temple are twelve steps with elongated risers. Most temples in Osteria have only three steps, but the twelve steps of Portaceae’s temple are designed not only to raise the temple to a loftier height in honor of Hera, but to give the climber time to ponder each of Osteria’s gods on his way to the temple’s interior.
Before the front of the temple stands an altar, a perfect rectangle of stone that was the sight of animal sacrifices until Portaceans gave up the harsh practice over a century ago. In front of the altar, just as with every temple altar in Osteria, rests the blood crime vault where anyone who has committed a blood crime is sent under to be judged by the gods. The thought of it, of being head of the ritual that will open and seal the vault, sends a chill through me that I try to ward off by clutching my riding cloak tighter to me.
As I approach, I can see the vault’s massive cover stone has been shifted aside and the lid of the interior coffin is propped open. The Solonian Guards have already presumed to open the chamber—a job that should have been left until a Herene is present. A surge of anger over Eury’s disrespect washes over me until I remember what I am required to do and that I will need to do it without ill will in my heart. I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. The morning air is laced with a calming scent from the hedges of lavender that surround the temple grounds.
I dismount and, after collecting a bundle of incense from my saddle pack, I hobble my horse so she can graze. I know when I return from this grim duty, she will smell of lavender from nibbling on her favorite treat. Ignoring the monstrous Solonian Guards, I climb the steps and enter the temple, a right afforded only to Herenes, the Solon, and those we invite into the temple’s interior.
Until the convicted arrives, I will beseech the gods to look into the person’s heart and judge him justly. I am supposed to remain impartial during this, but find I cannot do so. Never once have the gods seen fit to spare the convicted, but I continue the ritual all the same.
Twelve marble columns run along either side of the temple—one column for each of Osteria’s gods. Through a masonry trick I have yet to figure out, the rearmost column that represents Hera appears taller and further away from the other columns although measurements have shown each column is the same height and distance from its neighbor. A statue of Hera, regally seated with a peacock at her feet, fills the space at the rear of the temple. I’ve never liked this statue. It’s too cold and too unwelcoming to make people love her. But Hera does not demand love. She demands loyalty.
I make my way past the marble columns, lighting a stick of incense and placing it in a notch at the base of each column as I offer the column’s corresponding god a prayer for the convicted. With each stick I place, I repeat my plea to judge fairly. And, as much as I hate the thought, to make death come quickly if that is how they rule.
Once finished with the ritual I kneel in front of Hera’s statue admiring the intricate detail of each feather of the peacock’s tail that, rather than fanning in vanity, remains closed and flows onto the floor like an extension of Hera’s gown. Unsure of what more I can say to sway The Twelve, I utter no more prayers.
As morning light, filtered pink by the thinning clouds, fills the interior of the temple, the heavy footfalls of men crunch through the dry grass of the field beyond the temple grounds. They will be here soon. I stand and turn to leave the temple’s chilly interior. Despite my attempts to remain neutral and composed, with each column I pass my eyes burn and my throat clenches with threatening tears. I cannot be seen crying. I am a Herene. Unemotional and impartial. Pausing at the top of the steps, I inhale deeply forcing the tears down with each breath.
A man stands to the edge of the vault keeping himself distant from the guards. Once I see him, I don’t know how I hadn’t caught sight of his unruly red hair when I arrived. Or had he shown up in reverent silence during my devotions within the temple? He bows low as I come down the steps.
“Greetings, Iolalus.”
“Gods be with you, priestess.” He stands upright and gives me a shaky smile.
“Where is your cousin?”
“Coming across the field.” He points to the marching men.
“No, your other cousin. Our fearless Solon.” As judge and as leader, Eury is required to attend when someone is sent under.
“I don’t keep tabs on him.”
We stand in silence as the men close the gap. The guards breathe heavily, but Herc’s breaths are no different than if he’s been taking a morning stroll. Until he sees the vault. When he catches sight of the gaping hole, his eyes lock on it and his breathing comes in short huffs through flared nostrils.
“Prisoner in,” one of the guards commands.
This can’t be happening. He’s the Hero of Hestia. He saved me.
A trickling sound comes from his direction. I flick my eyes to the puddle at his feet, then quickly look to the horizon. I refuse to shame him by taking notice, but the guards start giggling like schoolchildren.
“Blood crimer, in. You insult the gods,” a guard barks.
“Enough of that,” I command. “Do not dare to presume you know the gods’ minds.”
The guards shift awkwardly on their feet. Ignoring them, Herc steps into the metal coffin and I hear a wet sniff from Iolalus who stands at my side. The heat behind my eyes is already welling up again. Iolalus cannot cry. If he does, I know I won’t be able to maintain my composure.
Before lowering himself into the box, Herc removes a charm from his neck and hands it to his cousin. He then fixes his eyes on me. Does he remember me
? I am older now, but only by twelve years. Does he recognize the girl he rescued in my face? I can’t tell, his eyes give nothing away, but I refuse to look aside even as my chin starts trembling.
With a clang of metal on metal, he is gone. One of the guards has closed the coffin lid on Herc and the other three are trying to shift the massive stone cover of the vault into place.
“Wait,” I say, my mind racing for an excuse to delay the inevitable. “The gods, we need to pray to the gods.”
It is a poor excuse, but the guards don’t know the protocol. They may have been alive when the last blood crimer was sent under, but they wouldn’t have attended the ordeal and can have no idea what proceedings take place. I can drag my prayers as long as I want, but to what avail? The stone will have to be placed and sealed at some point, but I still hold hope that somehow there’s been a mistake and that the gods may intervene. I think of Herc’s deep blue eyes staring at me as I begin an intonation to Hera.
“What’s going on?” The Solon’s haughty voice grates against my ears. In my focus I hadn’t even heard his gaudy carriage pull up.
“I was—”
“Not you, Herene. Them.” He points at the guards who stand with their hands behind their backs waiting for my order to seal the vault. The instant Eury points at them, they squat down, grunting as they shove against the stone cover. “No, no, no, you idiots, don’t close it! Get him out of there.”
The grunting guards’ faces twist in confusion. Despite the thudding pulse echoing through my ears, my own face feels as if it has been drained of blood.
Iolalus jumps into the vault and hauls the lid of the coffin open. He climbs back out and offers his hand to pull Herc up.
“Welcome back, cousin,” he whispers as Eury berates his guards for their stupidity.
“You,” Eury says pointing to Herc who is backing away from the vault, his face drenched and painted the same cold, grey color of the temple’s columns. “And you, priestess. I’ll need you as well if he agrees. You’ll need to record it in your register.”
The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles Page 5