The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles

by Tammie Painter

  She looks to her hands that fidget in her lap.

  “I suppose.”

  “In the meantime, there's no harm in trying to get him to be with you. You're a—” I pause uncertain if even I can lie well enough for this falsehood to seem true. “You’re a lovely woman with all a woman's charm, aren't you? A frigid Herene can't compete with a woman who is ready to receive a man.”

  “That's blasphemy,” she says although her amused grin eliminates any conviction in her words.

  “The truth can never be blasphemy.”

  I take another vial, an empty one, from my desk drawer and hold it between my right hand’s index and middle fingers. If the Oracle was right, a thumb truly is a small price to pay. I barely miss it. I decant a small amount of the hydra blood into the vial taking extreme care to keep the horrible substance off my skin. After sealing off my vial, I give Deianira a tiny cork for hers.

  “I don't get more?”

  “It only takes the smallest amount. They're very powerful.”

  And I need to keep some for my other cousin. There must be a desperate woman lusting for him as well.

  Deianira corks the bottle then clutches it to her breast, or what should be her breast—her chest is as flat as the plains of Demos.

  We stand and I walk her to the door. She turns to me, her face wet with grateful tears.

  “Thank you, thank you. You truly are kind, Excellency.” She reaches to grab my bound right hand, but I present my left. She kisses it repeatedly with her thin, cold lips.

  “Portaceae and her people are foremost in my mind. Now, remember your promise. None until he is released from his tribute.”

  “Of course, anything. Thank you.” She bows her way out the door.

  29

  HERC

  Even on the swift horses from Augeus’s stables, it takes several days to ride north to the port town from which we can reach the kingdom of Amazonia—a large island off the coast of the Vancuse polis that is most easily accessed from the ports near the polis of Seattica. Iolalus and I pass the entirety of the first day in silence despite the many words I want to hurl at him. His comfortable companionship with Iole grates at me worse than salt in a saddle sore. By the afternoon of the second day, it seems my cousin can stay silent no longer—but just because he can’t hold his tongue doesn’t mean I have to respond.

  After several failed attempts to engage me in chit chat regarding the lack of clouds, a herd of elk he spies in a field, and a tree leaning at an odd angle, Iolalus curtly says, “I see Iole as nothing but a friend.”

  “She sees you as more,” I mutter.

  “Yes, she sees me as your cousin. The cousin of the man I’m quite certain is leaving her questioning her devotion to the Herene lifestyle.”

  “There’s no question. She has made her choice and I’m not it.”

  “Well neither am I. You fell for a Herene. You’re probably not the first to do so and you’re probably not the first to find out their vows mean something to them. So stop taking it out on me. We’ve got a long journey and I don’t plan to pass it in silence.”

  As much as I hate them, his words ring true with painful clarity. I’ve fallen for a woman I can’t have. It isn’t a new tale, just one I don’t relish being a part of. And, of course Iole would befriend Iolalus. Nearly everyone does.

  “I’ve been a jerk.”

  “Yes, you have,” Iolalus agrees amicably.

  It’s dawn on our fourth day of traveling when we enter the port town—simply called the Dock Lands—that nestles between the polis of Seattica and the polis of Athenos. To remain neutral when the poli squabble or battle, the Dock Lands exists as an independent Osterian kingdom and each dock has become its own separate kingdom within the kingdom. The dock owners fly different banners of their own design to distinguish their realm from neighboring docks.

  Riding along the waterfront it’s difficult to decide which dock tender to give our custom to. Gruff men, some as stout as a ship themselves and others as thin as masts, linger at the end of their dock kingdom each shouting they have the best boats for the cheapest fare. We ride past them—no one who has a quality item to offer needs to shout so loudly to attract business. Other dock lords have planks missing from their wooden realms and bird waste splattered over those planks that remain. Worried this might be how they care for their boats as well, we continue on until we find a dock flying a banner that features a peacock with a bleeding heart clutched in its claws.

  “This seems appropriate,” Iolalus remarks.

  I look over the dock. It’s well kept with sturdy boards that, from the sheen of wet across their length, appear to have been recently washed. The boats—although most are small except for a large, sleek vessel at the end of the dock—all have the appearance of being clean and cared for. We dismount and tie the horses at the end of the dock to inspect what this dock lord has to offer. Having little experience with boats of any size, I have no idea what to look for, but fear being swindled if I allow my naiveté to show.

  As we approach a small square structure perched midway along the dock’s length, a man of perhaps fifty steps out. Salt and pepper curls spring out from under the black wool cap pulled over his head.

  “Help ya?”

  “This will do,” I say to the boat tender indicating a small row boat. It looks manageable even for two people who have no experience crossing anything wider than a river.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Amazonia.”

  The man’s brow furrows in confusion as if he’s heard wrong. He then raises his eyebrows and tilts his head in an expression that clearly says he thinks we’re crazy, but that he isn’t one to argue with a customer.

  “Well, you don't be wanting that. Too small. That there’s just for pleasure seekers looking to row about the harbor.”

  I point to a larger version of the same boat. This one has two sets of oars and a shade over the rowers’ seats.

  “Would do,” he says with an amused look on his face. “But the wind is up and you'll never get through the passage without popping y’er shoulder out of its socket. You haven’t spent much time on the water, have you?”

  “How about you show us what you'd take,” Iolalus says.

  “Well, I'd not go at all, but since y’er asking, you can't go wrong with that.” He points to a boat that measures about the length of four men my own size laying head to foot. At the bow, a prow curves up to form an elaborate spiral and at the ship’s rear hangs a hand-guided rudder. Jutting from the center of the boat is a mast as tall as the boat is long and from the sail springs a cobweb of ropes. We follow the dock lord and board the ship. Even knowing nothing about boats, I can see this vessel is finely crafted.

  “She's big enough to tackle the conditions you’ll encounter, but not too big to be unmanageable.” He opens a door that’s set into the floor. “Here is your below decks. Beds, workspace, kitchen, head. Nothing fancy but good enough.”

  “She’s beautiful, but we haven’t a clue how to handle this,” I admit.

  “That’s why she comes with a couple crew members who'll work the sails. You'll have to assist with jibs and odd jobs but nothing too complicated unless a storm kicks up.” He looks to the sky straight above him and then follows some line only he can see to the west. “Looks like you should have good weather and there’s a south wind that can get you there in half a day. Unless you’d prefer the row boat.”

  “No, this is perfect,” I say.

  With only a few rounds of haggling, we settle on a price and I put the horses in his care as security for any damage. We collect our packs from the horses and I’m glad I’ve brought the lion’s pelt despite the bulk it adds to my gear. Although I’m wearing my traveling cloak, I know the chill in the air will pierce straight through it once on the water. Nothing, not even the bitterest wind can slice through the lion’s skin.

  The crew, two men of about Iolalus's age, appear moments after the deal is done. A blonde man with wiry strength
introduces himself as Perseus before he sets to work checking the ropes. Pirro, a small man with close-cropped black hair and olive skin, greets us warmly before scuttling up the mast to inspect the sail riggings. Within an hour we’re pushing away from the dock.

  After following a few commands to ready the sails, Perseus offers us a jug of wine that Iolalus and I swap back and forth as we watch the water splash against the bow. The day is clear and beautiful with just enough wind to push us along at a moderate clip. Perseus and Pirro call back and forth to one another in a fast-paced dialect that’s hard to follow as they whisk the ship through the gauntlet of small islands dotting the channel between the mainland of Osteria and the kingdom of Amazonia.

  It’s too idyllic to dwell on Iole’s scorn or my wife’s desires. On the sea with the wind on my skin, the chatter of the crew dancing through my ears, and each island’s individual beauty filling my vision, I can’t dwell on the complexities of Portaceae. My love for Iole, which she apparently no longer returns, and my duty to my wife blow away like the wisps of salt spray flying from the ship’s bow. Being so far away from Portaceae, both the idea of making an effort to be a good husband to Deianira and my yearning for Iole feel equally ridiculous and impossible. Here on this boat and on the water, I’m free and for the first time since the start of these trials, I do not relish the idea of returning to my own polis.

  “What's that grin?” Iolalus asks.

  “I was just thinking we're free of Portaceae's laws and that if a mermaid appears I’ll haul her up and ravish her until she sings my name for the rest of her days. And Hera can do nothing about it.”

  “Not a bad idea, if you can get to the mermaids before I do.”

  “Let's just hope they travel in pods.”

  Iolalus watches the sea, scanning the surface as if he might be the first of us to sight a mermaid.

  “There,” he shouts and grabs my arm shaking me and pointing to the water. “Did you see them? It’s our mermaids.”

  A moment later, an array of tall black fins break the water’s surface. Shiny dark backs arc up from the water and then curve back down. They aren’t mermaids, or at least none from any stories I’ve heard. Suddenly, the water surface explodes as one of the beasts, black on the back with a pure white belly, leaps from the water, twists, and crashes back down on its back. Three others follow suit as the rest continue arcing their way along.

  “Orkahs,” Pirro shouts. After a brief period on deck, he’s scurried back up the mast. He beams a smile and Perseus cheers, shouting the word back to his mate.

  “Will they attack?” Iolalus asks Perseus.

  “No,” he replies through a laugh. “They are the orkahs. Good luck if you see them.”

  Perseus returns to his duty of guiding the ship and Pirro slides down the mast to tend to the rudder. Iolalus and I watch the orkahs until they dive under and disappear. We keep our eyes trained on the water until they ache, but eventually give up hope of seeing the creatures again. Perseus instructs us to work on tidying up the ropes that are no longer needed now that we’ve cleared the majority of the islands. He sits with us, tying a length of rope in complex arrays of knots as we work.

  “What will we do when we get to the island?” Iolalus asks. “I hear the women aren't exactly fond of guests.”

  “There's an understatement,” Perseus says. “The last crew that approached their shores pulled into dock with too much haste and was downed by arrows before they could even holler a greeting. Your best approach is to wait. Once they realize you don't mean to attack, they'll send someone out to see what we want.”

  “And we're just going to tell them we want their queen's symbol of power, a belt worth more than all the boats of the Dock Lands?” Iolalus asks.

  “I hope to be a bit more subtle than that, but essentially, yes,” I reply.

  We’re nearly done with the chore, when Pirro begins shouting to Perseus in their rapid-fire dialect. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but his gesture is clear: He’s spotted something.

  I look beyond the spiral prow. Not far in the distance, a large island floats on the water looking lush and green with an off-center hill that slopes down to a village of stone houses. The place would appear inviting except for the fifty or so lookout towers dotting the shore and the hills surrounding the village. My vision is sharp enough to observe the arrows pointing through the jagged crenellations at the top of the structures. No doubt we’ve been seen long before Pirro’s shout alerted us to the island.

  “Amazonia,” Perseus announces. “We’ll need to lower the sails to ease into the dock. The tide will allow us to approach as slowly as possible. That’ll help prevent us from being decorated by a storm of arrows fired from a thousand bows by well-trained, defense-minded women.” He pauses, then adds, “I hope.”

  30

  HERA

  “Now, what’s that look?” Poseidon asks as he comes upon me sitting on a bench in one of the gardens on Mount Olympus. Zeus and I used to walk through this garden hand in hand admiring the passionflower vines, plucking daisies for one another, and lounging in the grass able to spend hours just kissing and chatting and enjoying one another. Gods, how long ago had that been?

  Although the place should make my skin crawl knowing my husband has probably brought countless nymphs, goddesses, and—worst of all—mortal women here, I still find the garden the best place on Olympus to be with my thoughts. And oh, the thoughts that have been racing through my head of late.

  “Has someone been planting poppies in the garden?” I ask.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” my brother says looking at me with his turquoise eyes that change color depending on his mood. When foul, they turn to stormy grey, but for now the warm and inviting color reflects he’s feeling jovial, curious even. “Why?”

  “My head is completely fuddled. It has to be drugs.”

  “Come.” He offers his hand. “Walk with me. Walking always straightens a befuddled mind. Move your feet and move your mouth. That’s the only way to get your head right.”

  I take his calloused hand that I normally refuse to touch saying it irritates my skin, but somehow this time his callouses comfort me. They feel solid and true, and help ground my muddled and foggy mind.

  We head up a path that wraps around the western face of Olympus. With the sun rising, the sky is filled with reds and oranges that glint off the ocean making it look as if it’s on fire.

  “I’m stuck,” I begin. “I don’t know which is worse, Eury as the leader of my polis or the thought that Zeus's bastard may indeed have been the better man for the job.” Poseidon remains quiet allowing me to vent everything that has been running circles around my head for days. “But Eury lately is beyond control, something must be done to reign in that pompous, arrogant attitude he's developed. Iole threatened him with instituting the neglect charge and made her point well, but I fear if she allows a vote among the Herenes they will pick Herc. Then where would I be?”

  I pause and we continue strolling. The path curves slightly north, and the view from Olympus takes in the array of islands, both large and small, that dot the sea off the coast of Seattica. Amazonia dwarfs them all.

  “Is he truly that bad?” Poseidon asks, breaking the silence and giving me a start. “Certainly all his work these past weeks has been in honor of you and he has never spoken ill of you.”

  “Zeus's bastard,” I scoff as I yank my hand away from my brother. “Zeus's favorite bastard made with the oh-so wonderful Alcmena. Turns my stomach.” I rip a rose from its bramble and fling it down to the flagstone pathway.

  “Sister, stop and think. Are you and Herc so different? Zeus betrays him as much as he betrays you. I have no reason to speak ill of my brother, but has Zeus ever protected his son at any point in his life? Has he done anything to make the boy’s world any less dangerous? Zeus gives this so-called favorite about as much attention as a girl gives a doll she's grown tired of.”

  Being compared to the bastard makes my skin bris
tle as if I’ve rolled in a patch of poison ivy, but I have to allow that Poseidon has a point. Zeus has done nothing for his son but spew his seed into his mother and try to bestow on him the gift of the gods.

  The gift!

  “Iole loves him,” I blurt.

  “Well, now there’s something. Would a being made solely of you give her love away to anyone who wasn’t worthy?” He hands me a freshly picked rose, but I ignore the gesture.

  “You’re forgetting my love for Zeus has been betrayed infinite times. Love means little.”

  “Still, she does love him and he her, staying faithful to her even in the bonds of marriage.”

  We curve away from the garden’s cliffside path and turn into the jasmine garden. In the mornings, the small courtyard surrounded by white-flowered vines fills with floral perfume. I can almost look past the fact that the bastard is, in the true meaning of adultery, cheating on his wife by sending his love elsewhere. But he loved Iole before this marriage—a marriage he’d been forced into, not a marriage like mine where Zeus pursued me for ages before I gave into him. Why wouldn't the bastard love my daughter still? Zeus? No, he claimed to have loved me and perhaps he did for a time. But then came the women. Parades of women. Mortals and immortals he bedded and bred with like a mongrel loose amongst a pack of bitches in heat.

  “If only he hadn't loved Alcmena,” I say, plucking a jasmine flower from its deep green vine. “He was a fool for her, forgetting all his duties, all his other women, and of course me to bed her.”

  “Is that what all this is? Your jealousy over Alcmena? Why punish the son for the father’s indiscretion?”

  “Because had he not loved Alcmena so much, had that love not made him foolish enough to grant the gods' gift upon the son in her womb, had he just once apologized to me for calling her name when he finally returned to my bed, I may not have hated the boy with such passion.” I throw down the flower and crush it under my sandal. “Certainly I hate all Zeus's bastards but this one especially because this one represents all I will never be to Zeus. And each time the bastard defends my polis or honors me, I hate him even more for his loyalty.”