Five tasks remain. How far can I send him? How much can he obtain for me?
My eyes land on Minoa—far east of the Great Mountains, nearly as far as the Chasm of Hades. Minos, the king of Minoa who renamed his realm after himself, keeps a sacred bull that’s dear to the Minoan people, and the king is said to adore the creature.
Such a treasured animal would be a lovely sacrifice in honor of Adneta—just a little bloodletting, of course, we Portaceans aren’t barbarians like the Areans who still hack animals apart for the gods’ pleasure. Adneta could even wear one of her new gowns to the occasion. If Minos wants his darling bull back, I don’t doubt he will pay dearly for its return. Money I swear I will manage tightly this time—who would have thought two million drachars could disappear so quickly? And, if rumors of Minos’s temper are to be believed, when he discovers my cousins are the ones who stole his pet—well, I won’t complain if the king takes his revenge on them and saves me the bother of sending them under.
As the sun peeks over the horizon, I dash off a letter, grab the necessary travel passes, and order them taken to Peacock Lane.
22
HERC
Deianira’s shouts continue to bite into my ears as I turn off the tight alley of Peacock Lane and into the wider avenue that will take me to the House of Hera. Eury may not have any good feelings toward me, but he has done me a favor with his summons even if I don’t agree with its request.
Taking care of troublesome creatures is one matter, but stealing a sacred bull tastes as foul to me as taking Artemis’s stag had to Iole. And since the Minoans do not honor The Twelve, I doubt any of Osteria’s gods will intervene in my favor if things turn sour on this task.
At the House of Hera, the daily routines are already underway when I step through the Peacock Gate. Apples are being picked from dwarfed trees, late summer strawberries are being collected in baskets, the peacocks are being fed, and Euphemia, despite her hobble, is raking the pea gravel walkways to level them out as she fires a scowl at anyone who dares to walk back over and disturb her work. Inside I know the breakfast dishes will already be cleaned as preparations begin for lunch, and household chores will be underway. As the women greet me with knowing smiles, I realize what a home the House has become to me.
Iole steps out from the Herenes’ quarters. The morning sun moves just above the height of the front wall, making her hair gleam. She raises a hand to shield her vision from the blinding light and our eyes meet. She looks down to her feet, shifts first to the right and then to the left as if uncertain which way to go. I start toward her, but she makes her decision and dashes back into her quarters.
Regardless of the impulse to run in after her, I have no time. The train Iolalus and I have passes for leaves in less than an hour’s time. I need to gather my things, find Iolalus, change into traveling clothes, and see if the kitchens can prepare us some food for the journey. I head first to the kitchens.
The heat from the wood-fired ovens and stoves vibrates off the walls of the entire lower floor of the south wing. Adding to the heat is a chaos of activity as women clad in cream-colored shifts scuttle about with wheels of cheese, hunks of meat, and bushels of produce. The clang of metal pots and peal of raucous laughter is a jarring change from the peace outside.
At a large central table that serves as work area and chopping block, sits Iolalus with his head clutched in one hand as he picks at a large chunk of bread. He greets me with a weak smile.
“Shouldn’t you have eaten already?” I ask.
“I slept past breakfast. In fact, I wish I was still sleeping.”
“What happened to you?”
“Iole and I spent the night trying to forget your wedding.”
“You stayed the night with Iole?” My angry outburst brings a sudden silence to the bustling kitchen. The women quickly return to their stirring and chopping, but all ears stay angled in my direction.
“We were supervised the entire time,” Iolalus says so all can hear. He looks about the room as he repeats, “The entire time. By Maxinia.” He tears off a hunk of bread and guzzles several cups of water as I ask Portia, a stout woman who oversees the kitchens, if she will prepare some food to see us through the time it will take Iolalus and me to reach Minoa—a three-day journey by train. She beams a look full of pride as if she’s been asked to prepare a meal for the Solon himself and rattles off a menu of dried fruits, hard cheese, the hearty rolls I’m already familiar with, and jerkies that she’ll have ready “as quick as can be.”
I thank her and head to the north wing with Iolalus who snatches another portion of bread as we leave.
“How was the wedding night?” he asks in a hushed voice as we cross the courtyard. “All you could have hoped for?”
“I managed to avoid her last night.” I can’t tell him how close I had come to fleeing Deianira’s house during the small hours or that I tried to fill my head with thoughts of Iole to even imagine bedding my wife. “And, thanks to the gods, our cousin narrowly saved me from my marital duties this morning with another task.” I hand him the letter I still have clutched in my hand. “So finish your bread and pack your things. We’re off to Minoa.”
As Iolalus slips into his room to gather his gear, I go to mine to do the same. I set the breast plate on a high-backed chair, lay the lion cloak over the chair’s arm, and change out of the ceremonial tunic into something less fine. Out of habit, I touch my chest where the vigile charm once rested and again curse myself for the superstitious gesture when I find the talisman missing.
With our packs on our backs, swords at our waists and papers in hand, Iolalus and I start across the courtyard to the Peacock Gate. Something nags at me and I turn to look back. Iole is standing at her window watching us go. I know there’s no time to talk, but seeing her makes me want to run to her and never leave her side. Regardless of all I want to say, there is nothing I can do until I return. I turn back focusing on the gate and the street beyond.
“He didn’t bed her,” Iolalus shouts. He’s looking up at Iole, but all the women in the courtyard have heard. Some let out shy titters of laughter while others shoot us scornful glares. My face burns with embarrassment.
“Shut up, Iolalus,” I mutter. I grab my idiot cousin by the arm and drag him out of the complex.
Once past the gate and beyond the wall of the House, I release my grip on his arm. I glance over to him. A broad smile brightens his face.
“What?” I bark.
“She smiled. At the news.”
“Which is why it’s good we’re going far away.”
The train rattles and clanks eastward through the green gorge carved by the Great Col River. From the window we can see Cedonia’s wood-framed buildings and the Hooded Mount’s patchwork of snow left over from last winter. Over the night, the train diverts south into the high desert of Bendria, and the next day it heads east again into a smaller group of hills surrounded by plains of long grass.
At stops we can stretch our legs, but since our travel passes are only for Minoa, we aren’t allowed to leave the stations’ platforms. After another night of travel we enter a land that is a stark contrast to Portaceae. At home, the regular and persistent rainfall makes everything green, but the land around Minoa is striped with reds and yellows and browns in variations that I’ve never imagined.
The Minoa station sits just outside the city’s walls. Stepping onto the platform I’m greeted by a blast of hot air that actually seems refreshing after the stuffy confines of the train. At the station’s exit a burly man checks our passes with heavy scrutiny and several suspicious glances from the paper to us before allowing us to pass through the gate.
Inside the walls is a city to rival any of the poli’s capital cities. I was impressed by Cedonia, but I’m floored by the perfect lines of Minoa. Although the walls are ancient and made of rough-hewn rock, the gleaming, smooth building edifices are constructed of metal, stone, and sections of glass that carry only a light tint of the red dust blown in from out
side the walls. Unlike Portaceae where it’s now rare to see buildings rise to more than four stories, the Minoan buildings jut up well beyond the sprawling city walls and several are connected by walkways in the sky. The idea of crossing one of these aerial paths sends a lurching sensation to my gut.
From the station, Iolalus and I follow the general stream of people through wide streets, covered arcades, and narrow passageways. I’m in awe the entire way and have to keep checking that my jaw isn’t gaping. Trees for shade and fruit line the streets, metal arms stick out from buildings to hold baskets of brightly colored flowers, and tucked into any spare niche are bubbling fountains that cool the dry air and provide people an easy source of fresh water.
The cluster of people finally fans out at the center of the city where a temple glows with shining marble. Tall, leggy columns support its vaulted roof, while under the temple, rather than a marble floor and a statue of a god or goddess as in the temples of the poli, grows a patch of deep green grass on which a red bull rests. Attendees drag soft-bristled brushes over the bull while others paint its hooves and arm-long horns with the elaborate geometric patterns favored by the Minoans. Leading up from the temple complex slopes a low hill topped by a grand house that appears vast enough to hold both the House of Hera and Eury’s villa.
“That must be Minos’s house,” I say recalling Stavros’s description of Minoa.
“And that must be the bull. How are we going to steal that thing? It looks too fat to walk.”
“I don’t plan on stealing it.”
I stride toward the temple and ask one of the attendants, a bald man clad in a red robe that covers only one shoulder, where I can find Minos. He directs me to a squat building in the corner of the arcade-lined square surrounding the temple.
As we near the single-story building that looks shabby enough to fit perfectly into Portaceae’s cityscape, the smell of roasting meat and rich broth sends my stomach rumbling. After days of cold, dry food, my mouth yearns for something warm, wet, and flavorful.
Inside, a man with arms that are disproportionally muscular compared to his slim frame pours a vat of brown, chunky stew into an earthenware pot set into one of three holes in the counter in front of him. When he is finished, a woman waiting at the counter slides a coin over and points to the pot he has just filled. He takes the coin and fills a large bowl to its rim with the steaming stew. Iolalus steps up to the counter in two quick strides.
“What can I get you?” the counter tender asks in a tone that says he could care less.
“Do you take coin from Portaceae?” I ask.
The man laughs. “I thought you lot didn’t have no coin left. But if you do, I ain’t got a problem taking it.”
I look over the three choices, torn between which to get. I settle on a stew that has a reddish-orange tint to it and smells of spices and chilies. Iolalus picks the pot that contains noodles drowned in a thick, meaty gravy.
Scanning the small dining area, it doesn’t take long to guess which man must be Minos. The room contains only ten seats and he occupies two of them. It’s possibly the only time I’ve seen a man larger than myself who can’t account his bulk to fat. He wears a simple tunic, but flowing over the back of his chair is a long red cloak that’s fastened to his shoulders with two clasps in the shape of bulls’ heads whose horns jut dangerously outward.
“Minos?” I ask. He holds a spoon heaped with the same reddish stew I’ve chosen. He looks us up and down as the spoon drips half its overflowing contents back into the bowl. I wish I had Iolalus’s insight to people because I can’t judge the king’s expression and am certain he is deciding what region of Hades’s Chasm to tell me to go to. The dripping spoon dives into his mouth and comes out clean. He stares a moment longer then breaks into a broad, welcoming smile.
“Sit, sit,” he says gesturing toward the two chairs opposite him. As we settle into the creaking chairs he takes another bite then asks, “Where are you from?”
“Portaceae,” I respond since Iolalus has already tucked into his noodles.
“Ah, such a shame. That used to be one of the better poli. But we’ll talk later. Eat. The stuff’s good cold, but best hot.” Once we’ve emptied half of our bowls and praised the food, he asks, “And what brings Portaceans here? Looking for recruits to fight the Areans? You know the Minoans stay out of the poli’s battles.”
On the train, Iolalus and I had already complained that these tasks needed to steer away from obtaining goods and more toward securing support against the Areans. So far, the Arean raids haven’t moved beyond Nemea, but the destruction there is a foreshadowing of what the rest of Portaceae will face if Eury doesn’t start taking the threat seriously.
Minos, far from the politics of the poli, is right—we should be gathering support, not chasing after animals and monsters. But this is not the place to seek help. Although a part of Osteria, Minoa is a separate kingdom that does not worship The Twelve. The realm isn’t overseen by a god or goddess and isn’t one of the twelve poli. The Minoans trade with the poli as well as the other kingdoms of Osteria, but do not take sides in battles or in wars. There is only one thing I can hope to get from Minoa and after I obtain it I will insist to Eury that the direction of my tasks take a different course for the protection of Portaceae.
But first I need to ensure both Iolalus and I survive this trial.
“I was wondering if you might give us your bull.”
Iolalus’s spoon clatters to the floor. As he scrambles to pick it up he gives me a look as if he thinks I’ve returned to madness. But Minos belts out a hearty laugh as he slaps his thigh.
“You want Frederic? Why? He’s dumb as a stick and can’t be trained for anything. Other bulls you can teach them things—sit on command, roll over, stamp their feet as if they’re counting. But that creature? Nothing. Just wants to lay there. I mean, if you want meat, you didn’t have to come so far. Poseidon’s horses and Hermes’s sheep are closer to Portaceae than my bulls.” He chortles at his own joke and I can’t help but smile at his mirth. Whoever gave Minos the reputation for a quick temper must have encountered the king when he had an empty stomach. “There’s a story behind this. Tell me and I’ll consider your request.”
I’m more than willing to tell Minos of my tribute service, although I consider leaving out the murder of my children. But already Minos strikes me as a man who will want the entire truth and like a man better for telling it.
When I’m done with my tale, my entire tale, Minos pauses. His first bowl of stew is long gone and he’s already finished the second bowl the counter tender brought him. I finish the rest of what’s in my dish as I wait for his response. He keeps his face stern and I’m certain he’ll say no, that he’ll tell me to get out of his kingdom. He lets out a loud burp and shakes with laughter at the noise.
“You can have him,” he says leaning back in the chair and folding his arms against his chest.
“Really?” Iolalus blurts. “Just like that?”
“It’s no matter. Frederic is old. He’s to be replaced with a new bull when we hold the Earthshaker Festival tomorrow.”
“Earthshaker?” I ask. All around Osteria earthquakes have been coming with more frequency. Whereas our histories have records of only a handful of strong earth tremors over the six hundred years since Osteria’s founding, each year over the past two decades has seen at least one large quake and several smaller ones. We don’t celebrate them, we fear them especially in Portaceae where our finances can’t keep pace with the repairs and fortification of buildings, and the Herene medics can’t keep up with the injuries.
“No, not what you’re thinking. Not the tremors. The Earthshaker Festival goes far back. It’s when we see the death of the sun at the end of summer. It’s the liveliest festival you could ever attend, that’s for sure. During the festival, we replace the bull with a new one.”
“You sacrifice it?” Iolalus asks with concern. Animal sacrifices do occur in Portaceae, but they’re rare occasions and e
ven when they do take place only a few drops of blood are taken from the animal to be scattered on the temple’s altar. The last one I can recall was to honor my grandfather when he died.
“No, gods no. The current bull simply gets transferred to pasture land to live out his days and we bring in a new one for the year. It’s not as if we aren’t bursting with bulls around here. They remind me of myself.” He pats his large but firm belly. “I think it’s why I like to see them pampered.” He lets out another of his self-amused chuckles then looks us over. “You seem smart. Now, show me how smart you are. Have you figured out yet what this Cousin Eury of yours is after?”
“Money for Portaceae,” I answer automatically, but the moment the words pass my lips I realize it isn’t that simple.
“Has Portaceae seen any benefit from the riches you’ve brought him? Nah, don’t answer, I can see on your faces that it hasn’t. He’s in this for himself and this bull he wants is him pushing his luck. Telling you to steal from a ruler of a kingdom.” He gives a scoffing snort from his broad nostrils. “Has he asked you to take anything from the gods, I wonder?”
“The stag of Artemis,” I respond. “But the goddess ensured Eury didn’t get it.”
“Good, because let me tell you, you may think the gods are strong, indestructible, but there are possessions of the gods that could destroy them if they fell into the wrong hands. It’s why I won’t have anything to do with them. They come off as all powerful, but in truth they’re weak and petty. And I think your Eury is definitely the owner of a pair of wrong hands. If he ever asks you for anything else belonging to the gods, you need to keep it from him because if he can take possession of something sacred to a god, he’ll have power over that god. He may not have realized it with Artemis. Personally, knowing of her protectiveness over her beasts, I think he was hoping she’d make a pincushion of you with her arrows. Some cousin,” he snorts again. “I’d rather have an Arean in the family.”
The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles Page 23