The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles

by Tammie Painter

“Shouldn’t your mother be taking care of this?”

  Before I can respond, trumpets blare and my stomach somersaults. Weddings are the only time trumpets announce the groom rather than the Solon. Typically, Eury accepts this as part of tradition, but when he hears the trumpets calling for Herc, the Solon’s face pinches with displeasure that only increases when he sees his cousin. Herc is led up the ramp to the dais by two Herenes with Iolalus following behind. The chattering from the arena’s packed seats falls silent at the sight of him.

  Dressed in his ceremonial white vigile tunic and high leather boots Herc looks bold and brave, the image of a hero. Estia’s hand in creating his outfit is obvious. Silver ribbons, much like the ones in my hair have been worked into the boots’ laces and she has decorated the leather flaps that hang like a skirt from his belt with silver paint. Over his torso, Estia has donned Herc in his ceremonial armor—a shining steel breastplate embossed with a peacock. Rather than hide his physique, the covering emphasizes it.

  As with me, Estia has given Herc a cloak to wear. But his is not a feminine garment of silk and stitches. Made of the lion’s cream-toned pelt, the cloak has been sun-bleached to a brilliant white. The claws of the front paws—designed to rest on his shoulders—have been tipped in silver, the skin of the lion’s head now fits as a cowl, and the tawny mane glints with silvery highlights. Completing the effect of the undefeatable hero, the upper jaw of the lion rests on Herc’s forehead as if the beast were bearing down on him with silver-tipped teeth.

  Herc’s eyes flick to me and then focus straight ahead as he strides up next to me in the center of the dais. In a habitual gesture I’ve noticed he can’t seem to shake, his hand touches his chest where his vigile charm should be. Iolalus, Maxinia, and the two Herenes stand at the rear of the platform, while Eury takes his position at the front.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers from the side of his mouth.

  “As do you,” I respond quickly as my throat catches. I can’t do this. I can’t wed him to someone else. I drive my fingernails into my palms to keep from reaching out to take his hand.

  “Gentlemen, and of course, ladies,” Eury says to the crowd. “Recently my dear cousin had his birthday and therefore we celebrate his wedding day. Ladies, I know it’s been a hard wait—”

  Eury strides across the front of the dais as he continues his pompous speech about the tradition of the marriages of Portaceae, of Hera’s desire for all to be happily wed, and many more words I can’t focus on. Instead, I find my eyes scanning the audience, honing in on every beautiful woman’s face imagining her mouth against Herc’s and her body pressed against his as Adneta had pressed hers to Baruch’s only moments ago.

  “And now,” Eury announces, “the man of the hour, Herc Dion.”

  Herc steps a pace forward. When he pushes back his cowl, the squeals of thousands of women fill the arena. I can’t blame them, in the setting sun, his skin appears as bronzed as a god, and the attire Estia has put him in only accentuates that he may be one of those mortals that belong among the Olympians. Eury makes a downward pushing motion with his hands to signal the women to quiet themselves. “Herc, have you a woman of your choosing to join you on this day?”

  Herc stands silent. A few female cries of “Pick me,” and male shouts of “I’ve got a daughter you can have,” ring out, but as Herc maintains his silence the cries die out.

  I keep my eyes focused on my silvery sandals hoping I can keep my face neutral if he selects someone. But when the crowd begins murmuring and one of the Herenes behind me gasps, “Dear Hera,” I can’t help but look up.

  My eyes lock on Herc’s. He has turned slightly and is looking directly at me. We hold the stare for a moment that seems to swell into an hour before sorrow crosses his face. He closes his eyes and lowers his head as if accepting defeat. He then raises his head and looks to me once more.

  “The one I would choose has already been taken,” he says in a deep voice as he continues to hold my gaze for a moment longer. He then angles his body away from me, his eyes staring straight ahead. “The state may choose.”

  “And so it will. We have here,” Eury holds up a velvet bag, “the names of each woman who has entered her name into the lottery to join you as your wife. And now, I think we’ve had enough of a show, let’s find you an available and willing woman.” He plunges his hand in and swirls it around for what feels like an eternity before stopping, making an exaggerated grabbing motion within the sack, and teasing out a slip of parchment. “We have a bride.” He reads the slip. “Deianira Devos.”

  A screech of excitement breaks the hush of the arena. A woman runs down the steps of one of the central sections of the arena. With hips no wider than an eight-year-old boy’s, a flat chest, and thin lips, her hair is her only full feature. The mounding pouf on top of her head bounces and takes on a life of its own as she jogs to the dais. Although I cannot like her, although I’m wishing with every piece of my being that I could be her, I have to admit her ecstatic and genuine smile bring a simple beauty to her face.

  She mounts the steps of the dais and faces Eury, but her eyes are fixated on Herc who doesn’t look in her direction after taking one brief glance at his bride.

  “So, Deianira,” Eury asks, “do you consent to wed this man?”

  Stupidly, I hope she will say no, that another will say no, and that a third woman will decline. If three women refuse a man, he remains single for another year during which time he’s obligated to give service to the polis either through labor or by assisting the vigiles.

  But in response to the question, Deianira latches onto Herc’s hand with both of hers. Herc shifts on his feet and I almost feel sorry for her as his face shows nothing but displeasure.

  “By Hera’s grace, I most certainly do,” she says in a shrill voice. Her face beams and her hair wobbles with her excitement. “The Hero of Portaceae, what idiot would refuse?”

  Eury’s face sours at the title she’s given Herc. It’s been going around. Even without the camera trained on his latest labors, tales of Herc’s exploits have passed from ear to ear like fire across a dry meadow. The people don’t have to stretch their imaginations more than a hair’s breadth to picture the hero on the screen or in the gossips’ tales as the one who can save Portaceae and raise her from her ruin.

  “Then,” Eury says, “with the grace of all the gods of Mount Olympus and Hera especially, I declare you married.”

  With a flourish, Eury shakes a scroll to unfurl it. A side table holds quill and ink and he begins filling in the names and dates as I take the cloth from Maxinia to do my duties.

  Deianira jerks Herc’s hand up so their forearms are horizontal. My throat feels as if I’ve swallowed sand and I’m afraid I’ll be unable to say the words of Hera’s marriage blessing. I begin wrapping Deianira’s wrist, unrolling the cloth as I cover her hand, continue to where she clasps Herc’s hand so tightly his fingers swell, and then wind the fabric over his hand and to his wrist.

  Deianira eyes me triumphantly as I say the words of the blessing. Had they not been ingrained into my memory years ago, I would not be able to recall them now. Throughout the words, I glance quickly to Herc who only stares dumbly at the cloth around his hand. When the blessing is complete, I unwrap the cloth muttering the words, “And though this material be easily removed, never shall the bond sealed beneath it be broken.”

  I step away from them, moving to the side of the dais as Deianira whips Herc’s hand into the air. This is normally the cue for the crowd to cheer and shout lewd jokes about the wedding night, but other than a buzzing murmur, polite applause, and a few sobs, the people remain quiet. Deianira, realizing the futility of holding the gesture, releases Herc’s hand.

  Once Eury dismisses them, the audience begins filing out. Herc remains on the dais and makes of show of being preoccupied with half-hearted congratulations from Iolalus and Maxinia. Eury turns to me.

  “You will make sure his things are moved to his wife’s house.”
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  “I’m just beyond the agora on Peacock Lane,” Deianira says then goes to her husband. She tugs on Herc like a stubborn ox she’s just bought from market. “Come husband, you have a new home now. And bed.”

  Despite all, I am too much my mother’s daughter to let this pass. I had promised myself if he seemed happy with the wife chosen for him, I would leave the matter. But the memory of the look in his eyes as he gazed at me before Eury made his selection and the lack of delight he holds for his new wife leaves me unwilling to stop my mouth.

  “The law forbids it,” I say. I dare to look to Herc. The slight upturn of his lips gives me courage. When Deianira shoots him a glare, he clenches his jaw and forces a neutral expression onto his face. Although the two Herenes who have escorted Herc bear looks of shock, Maxinia wears no hint of surprise. Iolalus, who I’ve learned never bothers to cloak his emotions, smiles broadly and looks as if ready for a good show. Outside the arena, cheering and singing have already gotten underway. Even if the people of Portaceae aren’t thrilled about a wedding’s outcome, their disappointment never drives itself deep enough to miss an opportunity to celebrate.

  “What are you on about?” Eury barks. “They’re wed. He has no home so they will live in hers until he resumes his vigile duties and is assigned new vigile quarters.”

  “No, he won’t. He is still paying tribute and therefore still a ward of the polis and—” I raise my voice as Eury tries to interrupt “—under the protection and guard of Hera until the tasks are done.”

  “He’s mine,” Deianira whines to Eury. “I want him with me, not in that compound of hers.”

  “It is the law,” I say forcing my voice to remain calm. “He is still a prisoner and is required to either be housed in jail or, since his tribute has already been decided by the Solon, in the House of Hera.”

  “Excellency, you can’t allow this,” Deianira protests. Eury puts a hand up to silence her, then sneers at me.

  “Is this the law?” Eury says turning his attention to Maxinia. She agrees it is. Eury takes a noisy inhale through his nostrils while pinching his lips. Something comes to him that brings a malicious grin to his face. “She’s right,” he says to Deianira. She’s about to complain when Eury turns to me and says, “But you wouldn’t deny our fate-joined couple one night together, would you?”

  I refuse to look at Herc or his new wife. I can think of nothing to say. No matter how much I want to, denying the traditional wedding night will seem petty. I’ve won the battle to keep Herc near me for a little while longer. To what purpose I do not know, but that victory is all I have the right to claim.

  “No, of course not. If we’re done here, I have matters to attend to,” I say. Without waiting for Eury’s dismissal, I grab the marriage decree and storm off the dais with Maxinia close on my heels.

  That night a knock stirs me from staring across the courtyard to the corner of the House that holds Herc’s room. Maxinia is still working desperately to find resources for defense.

  “Come in,” I say turning away from the window. Iolalus peeks in with a sympathetic grin on his face.

  “I thought you could do with some celebrating.” He holds up two jugs of wine by their handles.

  “I’m sorry. I’m in no mood to celebrate.”

  “Then perhaps you’re in the mood for some forgetting. I know I’d like to wipe this day out of my mind.”

  “That sounds brilliant.” I step over to a small cabinet and pull out three of the cups we use for tea. “Maxinia, care to join us?”

  She glances up from her books and seems surprised that Iolalus is here. “Just the one, I’ve got to sort these numbers out.”

  We each take a cup. Iolalus fills them to the rim and some sloshes out as we make the obligatory toast to Hera. Maxinia dots up the spills with a piece of cloth she keeps at hand to wipe ink from her fingers and quickly returns to her sums.

  “Were the medics able to help Altair’s wife?” Iolalus asks. “It’s been such a strange time since our return I haven’t had a chance to see how his family is.”

  My heart sinks. Too wrapped up in my own troubles, I’ve forgotten to pass along the news.

  “Cecilia went herself,” I say. My voice hides nothing and Iolalus, sensitive to every facial expression and every change in a voice’s tone, sags his shoulders. “It was already too late to help her, but Cecilia made her journey to the Chasm a smooth one.”

  “And his children?”

  “Are still healthy and being cared for by his mother.”

  “Thank the gods for that.” He raises his cup and I do the same. “To Altair,” he says. We clink our cups together and down their contents.

  Iolalus and I sit at my table chatting about mundane topics such as the weather, which polis might host the next Osterian Games, and whether or not Eury is aware that most of the people know the gems in his crown are false. After he promptly refills our cups a third time, a silence takes over.

  “You want to talk about Herc, don’t you?” Iolalus asks with a knowing grin on his face.

  I give a slight nod. “He seems to be doing laps around my skull.”

  “Well, I don’t want to dwell on today and I’m sure you don’t either. How about the night he rescued you and your family?”

  “You know what happened already that night.” My cheeks flush and I tell myself it is only the wine.

  “Not from your perspective. C’mon, out with it, tell me the story.” He leans back and props his feet on the chair beside him, then jostles the jug. “We have plenty of wine to get through.”

  I take a sip and begin.

  “I was sixteen when the fires raged through the heart of Portaceae. As with all sixteen year olds, I’d had my profession selected for me that year—not that I hadn’t known since I was a child what career I was destined for. The night of the fire was the night before I would join the Herenes to begin my two years of training and my whole family—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents—was there to celebrate the start of my career. We lived on Hestia Road, one of the better streets of Portaceae City, but even there buildings were in poor repair. The apartment next to our house was so ramshackle that whenever a wind storm kicked up, people in the neighborhood took bets on whether or not it would fall.

  “The fires had erupted in the northern part of the city; we lived in the western part. While we hoped the vigiles would get the flames out quickly, it had already burned for two days and still lit the skyline on the night of my party. Still, we gave little thought to the fire coming into our part of the city.

  “Just as I was handing the first slice of cake to my grandfather, a cracking sound startled both of us and the plate dropped to the floor. The sound had come from above us, from where my bedroom was. In only a few heartbeats, our world collapsed around us.

  “The window I’d been facing burst from night black to flaming orange. The apartment building, which once stood four stories tall, now ended at the middle of the second floor. Tendrils of smoke made their way to my nose and a sudden warmth heated my skin. By the time the fork clanged onto the fallen plate, the ceiling above my grandfather and I crashed in with a roar of fire.

  “I managed to dodge away, but my grandfather’s legs were pinned under a smoldering ceiling beam. My uncle, who had been sitting in the chair next to my grandfather, wasn’t as lucky. The same beam that trapped my grandfather had crushed my uncle’s skull. My aunt wailed and dashed to my uncle’s body. I needed to run, to get to the call box at the end of the street, but I could only stand there watching our home crumble around us.

  “With a jerk, I was lifted up and flung over someone’s shoulder. I didn’t know who it was, but he was shouting at us to get out. With me on his shoulder, he jogged out of the house well away from the flames. He was so tall that when he set me down, I was eye level with the vigile charm resting on his chest. He made numerous trips back into the flaming house to get everyone out, but when I looked for my grandfather, he wasn’t there. I started to run back in,
but my rescuer swooped me up.

  “’My grandfather is in there,’ I shouted at him as I pummeled him with my fists trying to get out of his grasp. He asked where he was. ‘Under the beam,’ I screamed.

  “The house was completely engulfed in flame, but Herc ran back in. Several moments passed and I thought I’d killed him. I’d killed a vigile to get my adopted grandfather out. I stood frozen in the street watching. No one could survive being in the middle of a fire that strong for that long.

  “Our neighborhood was one of the last remaining in the city that had running water. When I saw embers jumping from our house onto the neighboring house, I sprinted to their hose. Just as I turned the spigot, I saw Herc emerge from my home cradling my grandfather in his arms, my uncle’s body draped over his shoulders. He laid my grandfather down in a patch of grass. The old man sat up and coughed with a frightful hacking sound as my father rushed to help him.

  “Herc—he must have been thinking along the same lines as me—started toward me and took the hose from my hands. In a voice harsh with smoke he said the medics would be arriving shortly and then set about to spraying down the neighbors’ house while shouting at everyone who had gathered in the street to wet their houses as well. The wind had shifted and was driving embers from the fires in the north to the west. Without his quick thinking, the entire area would have burned as badly as the north.

  “Once he wet the neighbors’ house, Herc worked with my father to drown the remaining flames on our home and the apartment building. After the fire was little more than steam and char, he left.”

  “He just left?” Iolalus asks as he refills our cups. “Then how did he become the Hero of Hestia?”

  “Asking around, we figured out who the mystery vigile was pretty quick. Your cousin isn’t exactly easy to forget.

  “My father appealed to Eury, who had only recently dismissed his mother from her duties as regent, but the Solon—apparently already prone to despise his cousin—made excuses that Portaceae didn’t have the money for the extra expenditure it would require to recognize a single vigile. My father made it his personal vendetta to point out to anyone who would listen that our new Solon seemed to have plenty of money to refurbish the mansion on the hill he’d chosen as his residence.