And yet, he thrived. He rode around in a carriage that was worth enough to pave all of the city’s roads, lived in a home that could house at least fifty families, and heaped gift after gift upon the Solonia Adneta. If only my cousin would reign in his greed there would be no talk of a coup. If he would only quell his certainty of privilege, the vigiles would not have put my name up as his replacement.
We enter through the Peacock Gate, pass under a massive stone archway, and arrive in a courtyard. Around the perimeter and crisscrossing the garden are pebble paths that crunch under the horses’ hooves. Grape vines with still developing clusters drape heavily over post-and-rail fences, nearly ripe apples and pears fill the branches of dwarf fruit trees, and several beds of vegetables are being tended to by women, some dressed in all white while others wear plainer clothes. Dozens of peacocks, the sacred birds of Hera, strut about the area ignoring the paths and walking straight through the beds.
“The courtyard used to be filled with flowers, but I thought we should grow crops,” Iole says. “Women who come to help out are allowed to take fresh food home to their families.”
The women stop their work to stare at us. Some carry amused or curious expressions, but a few pinch their faces in disapproval.
“Take the reins,” I whisper to Iole. She does, her hands brushing over mine as we trade off. The gods must certainly curse me for the jolt her cool touch shoots through me. I slide off the mare and walk beside it as Iole rides the horse along the center path of the courtyard.
“Is the whole thing marble?” Iolalus asks as he gapes around at the gleaming building that rises three stories tall. A peacock sidles up to me and I reach out to pet it. As soon as my hand is in range, the bird makes a sharp nip with its beak and then scurries off sending pea gravel scattering in his wake.
The birds know what I am and treat me accordingly, I think as I rub the pinched skin.
“No,” Iole answers, “just the walls facing inward to brighten up the courtyard. The interior is wood and stone and plaster just like any other home. We find that keeps it from feeling like a mausoleum.” She stops just before passing through another archway and turns her horse around so we can take in the main building. “The back of the building here is the Herenes’ quarters. The front building we just passed through is for the acolytes. Your rooms are in the wing to the left, second story. Most of the lower floor as you can see is passageway—good for rainy days—except in the right side of this building which houses the kitchens and other work rooms like the laundry. That’s the only wing so far with running water, so that’s also where the baths are located.”
“You have running water?” Iolalus asks. “How? The pumps have been down for years.”
“This way.” She turns the horse around and we proceed through the archway. The back of the complex is like a small city in itself, with a barn and animal pen, a granary with millstone, and a blacksmith’s shop. Rising up from the back stands a stone tower, at the top of which is a giant metal vat.
“Is that stable?” I ask. With the recent earthquakes, anything hovering above an Osterian’s head seems a precarious thing.
“It’s been stabilized. Engineers from Athenos made it so it could withstand the ground shifting. The tank catches water, which flows down from that pipe into the left wing. If we’re careful, a full tank lasts three months.”
“Why is there no water in the other wings?” Iolalus asks.
“Engineers don’t stick around Portaceae long. There’s plenty of work, but no pay. Most have headed off to other poli. We hope to eventually attract them back, get more towers built and running water to the rest of the complex and the city. Perhaps when the situation changes in Portaceae.”
I make no reply to her comment, but its meaning is clear: The Herenes also support a vigile coup. If Eury knew the House would be in grave danger. It’s one thing for trained fighters to take sides in a rebellion, quite another for a collection of unarmed women to go against the Solon.
We approach the stables at the edge of the barn and as soon as Iole and Iolalus dismount, a boy of no more than thirteen with an unruly cowlick in the back of his dark blonde hair comes out and takes the horses.
“I know that child. I caught him stealing,” I say as the boy leads the animals into the barn talking to them as if they are long lost friends.
“That’s Cy. He paid his tribute in our stables and then we hired him. He’s quite good with the horses. I’m planning to recommend him for training in the vigile stables when he turns sixteen. He’s not a bad boy, just a hungry one with three younger sisters to feed. He earns the bread here that the Solon refuses to give to people.”
I am about to defend my cousin when a woman, so wrinkled I can barely tell which line is her mouth, hobbles up to us. She wears the plain brown shift of a novice Herene.
“Shall I show them to their quarters, Your Highness?”
“Thank you, Euphemia, but I’ll see to that. And, please call me Iole like I’ve asked.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Euphemia says as she continues on, dragging one foot behind her.
Iole signals us back to the main complex. We head up a stairway where the rear building and north wing—the tribute’s wing—meet.
“How is it you’re head priestess?” Iolalus asks on our way up. “You’re much too young. And too pretty I might add.”
“Iolalus!”
“What? The head priestesses I remember as a kid all had liver spots on their hands and wattles under their necks.”
“Show some respect. We’re guests in their house.”
Iole laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s true. At twenty-eight I’m the youngest head priestess in Portaceae’s history.” Once on the second floor landing we pass through a wooden door into a broad hallway. The inside wall is lined with windows that peer down onto the courtyard. Along the outward side of the corridor are doors set apart at evenly spaced intervals. “I came in at sixteen to begin training and moved up quickly. When the last chief priestess died—and I do recall those liver spots,” she says glancing back at Iolalus, “Hera made the sign for me to take her place.”
“The sign?” I ask. I know the Herenes keep the law and the treasury and have their public rites to perform to the gods, but know little of their rituals. In truth I’ve had no interest in the matter before meeting Iole.
“It’s silly really.” She opens the next to last door in the hallway. “This is your room, Iolalus. When it’s time to select a new head priestess, all the Herenes sit in the courtyard, rain or shine. We then wait to see which of us the peacocks come to. It’s quite funny because some of the women try to befriend the birds giving them bread and seed hoping that when Selection Day comes, the peacocks will go to them. On the last Selection Day we’d barely sat down before all the peacocks came to me. No one had seen anything like it.”
“Hera favors you,” I say.
“Perhaps.” She shrugs off the comment. “Settle in, Iolalus. There’s pen, ink, and paper on the desk. Make a list of anything you want from the barracks and we’ll see it gets here. The first bell you’ll hear will be the call to lunch.”
“I won’t miss it. Thank you, Iole.” When she turns away from the door to continue to the final room, Iolalus gives me a wink. I roll my eyes and mouth Shut up before following after her.
“This is yours,” she says as she swings the door open. The room consists of a single sprawling living area with couch and chairs arranged as if I’ll be having guests over for a party. Shelves filled with an assortment of books frame the tall windows that look out over the city and a trunk rests at the foot of a bed that looks large enough to fit even my frame. Positioned at either side of the plush bed is a pair of matching nightstands.
“This is larger than my house. Or what was my house. I should sleep somewhere else. The barn perhaps. This isn’t punishment.”
“This is the tributes’ wing. This is where people atone for what they’ve done. In the barn you would feel like an animal,
not the man you should be. My quarters and offices make up the top floor of the Herenes’ wing. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me.”
She touches my arm with her cool, delicate hand, but I brush it away. I hate myself for the hurt look that crosses her face.
“You shouldn’t touch me, you shouldn’t dirty yourself. I’m a blood crimer. I killed my family. I’m no longer a man.”
She shakes her head. “I won’t believe that.”
She takes both my hands in hers, lifting them and turning them over as if inspecting them for something. I expect her to see crevices filled with the dried blood of my children and to recoil from me, but either she sees nothing or ignores what she does find. She bends her head and places a light kiss on each of my palms.
I yank my hands away and step into the room.
“Thank you for your words, Highness, but I am what they say. Do not hold to an ideal you formed of me when you were a girl.”
I close the door on her and lean my forehead against it until I hear her light steps moving away from my room and the sound of door at the end of the corridor closing behind her.
8
EURY
The knocking at the bedchamber door distracts me from my moment of release. Adneta grunts and shoves me aside.
“You could at least satisfy me if you’re going to wake me at this hour.”
“Next time, my dear,” I say as I give the tip of her nose a kiss before dragging myself away from her.
Without bothering to grab my robe, I march from the bed to the door and yank it open. Baruch’s dark eyes dart to me, past my shoulder to the bed, and back to me as I hear Adneta pacing around the room. Under his gaze in the harsh morning light, I wish I had covered my half-erect state.
“Yes?” I demand.
“It’s time, Excellency.”
“Time?”
“You said to inform you when it was time to go to the House of Hera. They will have finished their morning devotions by now.”
“Yes, fine, prepare my clothes.” I shut the door.
“Must you go?” Adneta asks me as she sprawls back into bed and begins touching herself. “I hate leaving business unfinished.”
Damn the gods. My cousins can wait. The Herenes can wait. Baruch can wait. I cannot. I’m to the bed in two paces pleased with myself for making the wise decision to wake Adneta this morning with whispers that she can have a gift of her choosing rather than keeping the news a surprise.
“I’ve had my eye on a diamond necklace.” She moans as I enter her. “With an emerald pendant.” Another moan and then she is panting her words. “I want it. Give it to me.”
It makes no difference if she means me or the necklace. I swell inside her. The bed cries in rapid squeaks with my thrusts. “It’s yours. All yours.”
She writhes and clenches me to her sending me over the edge of passion. Once I stop, she slips out from under me and gives a satisfied grin. Dear gods, what if Herc fails Hera’s ridiculous task and I can’t get the necklace? Will my wife still want me?
As Adneta gets up to clean herself—giving me teasing glances as she does so—I chide myself for my foolish insecurity. Of course this woman loves me and she deserves everything I can give her. I had hoped the reward from ridding the people of the Nemea District of their lion problem would have stretched a bit further than one necklace, but I can’t fault my wife for having exquisite tastes.
After lingering a while to watch Adneta, I slide off the silk sheets and head to my dressing chamber. Baruch dresses me in curt silence. His quietude isn’t unusual. He rarely speaks to me unless asking or responding to a question, but his tugs at my tunic this morning seem harder, his belt cinching feels rougher, and his final brush down comes more like slaps than whisks. I ignore the harsh treatment, but remind myself if it continues into another day, he will have to be let go.
Being gentler on the horses than he had been with me, Baruch drives the carriage down the hill to the House of Hera. I leave the curtains open, letting the people see me, letting them view their Solon. A few bow or curtsy as I roll by, some turn away with faces snarled in disgust, others jut fingers at collapsed walls as if I have masonry tools in my carriage and will stop to make repairs right then and there. But the most obnoxious people are those cheering me. Any other time I would have rejoiced at this, but they don’t cheer me for my greatness or my status. No, they cheer that I have shown mercy to Herc.
My skin burns at their words. My hand grips the curtains, ready to whip them shut, but I realize that cheers are cheers. They see me as someone even greater than Herc because I have shown their hero mercy. And if he dies in these trials, it will have been I who gave him a second chance. Instead of hiding, I release my grip on the fabric to reach out of the window, wave, and brush the hands of my admirers.
By the time the carriage stops outside the House of Hera’s gate, I glow with the satisfaction of the morning. The smile pushing up my cheeks droops only the slightest when I step through the Peacock Gate to see Iolalus and the high priestess perched on a bench together as Herc stands rigidly behind them wearing what appears to be a freshly laundered tunic.
A blonde boy with a horrid cowlick holds the reins of two horses, talking to them and ignoring the adults. Iolalus chatters as Herc looks away and shifts on his feet whenever the Herene turns to him. When they see me, Herc stands even straighter and Iolalus rises to attention. The Herene takes her time, setting down the cup in her hands and smoothing her dress before standing and nodding her head to greet me.
I give the House a cursory look. I force my face to maintain its unimpressed expression as I evaluate the complex, but my blood pulses with envy at the House’s immense grandeur. Gods, the place has possibility. It would make a wonderfully spacious brothel. Much better than the cramped confines of Portaceae’s current whorehouse where I found Adneta. Plus, this location would be so convenient to the heart of the city. It’s not to say the trek beyond the city walls isn’t worth what the ladies have to offer, but it does cause problems when a man wants some pleasure once the city gates close at dark.
Such possibility. All these women puttering about could really give something back to Portaceae rather than living off the Herenes. Well, maybe not all, I think as I observe a hob-legged crone dragging a rake over the gravel paths.
“Cousins,” I say greeting them cheerfully. “You’re ready for your first task, I see. Rested? Fed?”
“Yes,” Herc says, then catches himself. “No, I mean, our things haven’t arrived.”
“And when will they?” I ask Iole. I give her my most charming smile and concerned gaze, but her face remains impassive.
“Later today. The House has been busy tending to injuries from another building collapse. Truly, Eury, you need to put money into the treasury so we can get these repairs done.”
With only a few sentences from her pert little mouth, the Herene brings a storm cloud over my sunny mood. How can someone so delicious be so serious? Perhaps if my brothel idea ever pans out, I can auction her off. A romp with one of Portaceae’s wealthy men could truly do her and my pocketbook wonders.
I could never understand why Portaceae’s founders had left overseeing the treasury to the Herenes. Every evening the accounts have to be reported to the House, and every month I have to meet with the priestess to go over the state of the treasury and budget—dull topics indeed. Did the founders not see the hassle this caused? So much running around with reporting to them income, detailing my expenses—with some creative embellishments to make Adneta’s clothes and jewels read more like stones for walls and cloth for ships’ sails. It would be so much easier to take the books out from under this little busybody’s nose.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but if you two wait, you won’t have time. The first task, one set out by Hera herself, must be completed by the end of the day and it’s an hour’s journey to where the lion was last seen.”
“Lion?” Herc asks.
“Yes, the Nemean Lion. Th
e governor of the district says the beast has been perusing the hills of Eastern Portaceae making snacks of livestock. And children.”
Herc flinches at the mention of children at risk. Hera is right—it is enjoyable to watch him suffer.
“But we have no weapons. How do you expect us to succeed?” Iolalus asks.
“You’ll find a way. Perhaps the Herenes keep a stock of weapons.” I give a questioning glance to the priestess.
“You know we don’t,” Iole says.
“Pity.”
Just then a man on horseback canters into the courtyard causing quite a commotion as the hobbling old woman brandishes a rake and yells at him to get off her paths. His long, black hair tied back with a strip of leather emphasizes his beak-like nose and angular face. The man reminds me so much of a bird that if he took off his tunic I wouldn’t be surprised to see wings sticking out of his back. His dusky brown horse, loaded down with equipment, stops beside us.
“Greetings, Altair,” I say.
“Gods be with you, Excellency.”
“Herc, Iolalus, meet your film crew, Altair Athos.”
“And why do we need a film crew?” Iolalus asks.
“Clearly, because I want to watch you. Altair can send a live stream that will go straight to my villa. And don’t ask me how, I’m no engineer.”
“It’s to do with the signals we can pick up from—”
“Do you know how much electricity costs?” Iole demands, cutting off Altair’s explanation. “You want to use electricity for your entertainment when it could be used to power equipment to build stronger buildings, pump water, bake bread. This is ridiculous. Electricity should be for everyone, not just the Solon.”
“Calm yourself, priestess. It’s not my fault the people placed electricity in the hands of the Osterian Council. They’re the ones that charge so much. They’re the ones that only allot a small quantity of electrical power to each polis. Not me. I’m as much a victim as everyone else in Portaceae. Now, if you’re worried about the cost, I promise to only turn on the screen during the good parts.”
The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles Page 8