## CONTENTS

Title

Teaser

Osteria

Chapter One - Herc

Chapter Two - Eury

Chapter Three - Herc

Chapter Four - Eury

Chapter Five - Iole

Chapter Six - Eury

Chapter Seven - Herc

Chapter Eight - Eury

Chapter Nine - Stavros

Chapter Ten - Herc

Chapter Eleven - Iolalus

Chapter Twelve - Eury

Chapter Thirteen - Iole

Chapter Fourteen - Hera

Chapter Fifteen - Eury

Chapter Sixteen - Herc

Chapter Seventeen - Iolalus

Chapter Eighteen - Eury

Chapter Nineteen - Iole

Chapter Twenty - Herc

Chapter Twenty-One - Eury

Chapter Twenty-Two - Herc

Chapter Twenty-Three - Eury

Chapter Twenty-Four - Iole

Chapter Twenty-Five - Eury

Chapter Twenty-Six - Herc

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Iole

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Eury

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Herc

Chapter Thirty - Hera

Chapter Thirty-One - Herc

Chapter Thirty-Two - Hera

Chapter Thirty-Three - Herc

Chapter Thirty-Four - Iole

Chapter Thirty-Five - Eury

Chapter Thirty-Six - Herc

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Hera

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Herc

Chapter Thirty-Nine - Eury

Chapter Forty - Orpheus

Chapter Forty-One - Herc

Chapter Forty-Two - Hera

Chapter Forty-Three - Iolalus

Chapter Forty-Four - Herc

Chapter Forty-Five - Epilogue - Hades

Hercules in Mythology

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The Trials of Hercules

Book One of the Osteria Chronicles

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by

TAMMIE PAINTER

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The Osteria Chronicles

Hundreds of years ago, North America experienced The Disaster. In what was once the Northwest, the survivors built a new world, Osteria, which was then divided into twelve city-states.

To this world came the gods formerly worshipped by the Ancient Greeks. The gods have not changed—they are still powerful, petty, and consumed with rivalries and jealousy.

And as before, the gods do not play fairly with those they despise.

## CHAPTER ONE

### _Herc_

THE DISTANT HOWL of the siren yanks me into consciousness. The vigile's siren. If the resonant wail is within earshot, the situation is nearby and it's my duty to respond. As a member of the vigiles, as the force's commander, I'm never off duty.

I jerk up from where I lay. The quick motion sends my head swimming. I drop my hands to my side to steady myself. I expect to sink into the plush give of my bed's feather mattress. Instead, cold tile greets my hands. My head swims again trying to understand. Trying to remember.

I grasp at the fog of a memory as I stare at my hand against the kitchen floor. My still spinning head can't comprehend the color.

_The tiles are beige, aren't they? _

It was what Meg had wanted when we'd been assigned vigile housing. I hadn't minded the standard-issue gray, but Meg insisted the sandstone tiles would lighten up the dark interior of the home the polis issued us when we married.

What frames my hand is not beige, although the pale color can be glimpsed in harsh streaks. Around my hand, even on my hand, swirls the maroon red of blood that is just starting to coagulate.

_Whose blood?_

The hand-cranked siren's rhythmic wooing grows louder. From fourteen years of service as a vigile, I know whoever is working the crank already has knots forming in his shoulder.

_My blood?_

I pat myself down. No injuries except an ache when I flex my hands. A familiar ache like the one I get on fall days from spending hours chopping wood in preparation for winter. The ache from gripping an axe handle for too long.

The pain triggers something and an image bobs to the surface of my mind: My hands clenching, squeezing something small. Cassie's doll? No, the memory is solid and the doll is made of cloth from one of Meg's old dresses.

The approaching siren again pulls me back into focus. It has to be a response call to whatever has happened. My eyes dart over the room as I force aside the ever-growing scream of "Whose blood?" that threatens to devour my reason.

Then I see it.

A shape that reminds me of peeking in on Cassie while she sleeps. Few things warmed my heart more than seeing my children in their small beds with their arms tossed back in the confident lull of childhood sleep.

But on the floor. Why is she sleeping on the floor?

I watch a moment. My baby girl's chest refuses to move with the rhythmic undulations of breathing. An icy hand digs into my gut.

Unable to stand, I scramble over on hands and knees. I clutch Cassie to me. Her head flops to the side. Her neck broken. I scream. The sound rings wildly in my ears but I can't stop. She's only a baby, not even a year old. She can't be dead, not after Meg gave up her life to bring this child into the world. The gods cannot be that cruel.

Despite the ragdoll looseness of her body, I turn my head and place my ear on my daughter's chest hoping to hear a heartbeat. I hear nothing but the siren.

Before I can curse the gods, my eyes lock on the floor.

Two swaths of maroon stripe their way from the kitchen into the pantry. Something has been dragged across the room. A set of footprints smears the wispy swaths. The person who made them wore the treaded leather-soled sandals of a vigile who needs to cover unpaved terrain.

_No, no, don't let it be. Not the twins._

Still clutching Cassie to my chest, unwilling to let her be alone, I stagger into the pantry.

_Don't let it be. Don't let it be._

The siren wails closer.

_Oh, dear gods._

Forgetting caution on the blood-slicked floor, I dash to the bodies, slip in the mess, and come down hard on my knees next to them, next to the bloodied dagger discarded by whoever did this. Sergio and Sophia, my tow-headed twins, lie face down. Blood stains their linen white hair and seeps out from slashes in the fabric of their tunics. Their position disturbs me more than the blood, more than the wounds. A head lying face down should naturally turn to the side, unable to balance on nose and chin. My twins' faces rest flat on the floor.

I gently lower Cassie to a tattered rug, brushing a lock of silky hair off her face.

The siren's screech is now on my street. They will catch the person who did this. And then I will see that person sent to Hades.

I slide my hand under Sofia's thin chest. As I cradle the back of her head in my other hand, I turn her gently to look at me. The sight churns my stomach bringing acidic bile into my mouth. Sofia's darling face, now a tangle of blood and bone, has been beaten until crushed flat. I ease her down as a ripping sensation tears through my chest.

Heat flares through my eyes and, before I can blink them back, tears spill onto my twins' ruined bodies. I stroke their backs as if lulling them to sleep.

The siren stops outside. Men shout and I wonder who's out there. Who made the call? Which neighbor ran to the end of the street to trip the call box?

_Did they see who did this? Did they see who destroyed my life?_

I stand, ready to help my fellow vigiles.

"Hercules Dion." The shout singes into my nerves and halts me. This isn't the shout of someone calling out to see if all is well with a friend. It's a command. "Come out willingly or we will use force."

_They think it's me._

I try to push away the idea as ridiculous, but the truth I ignored earlier whooshes over me like an autumn gale.

As part of the day's duty, I had planned to head into Forested Park at the western edge of Portaceae City. I had put on my treaded sandals for the task.

A feeling of being sucked to the depths of Portaceae's deepest well overwhelms me. With a shaking hand and a prayer to The Twelve, I reach to my calf. My legs give out and I collapse to the floor. The dagger I and every human vigile wears is not in its holster.

_No, no, it's impossible._

Even on their worst days of sibling rivalries and tantrums, I had never raised a hand to my children. To think of doing this, causing all this blood, reeks of an impossible nightmare. The hand gripping my gut squeezes tighter sending a fresh burst of bile that burns my throat.

I push myself up, fighting the urge to grab my children to me, to hold them and protect them like I had failed to do what must have been only moments ago. On shaky legs that threaten to give out with every step, I take the few strides from the pantry, through the kitchen, across the living room, and to the front door. All the while I keep my eyes straight. I can't look at the blood.

_I didn't do this._

Opening the door brings me face to face with at least twenty vigiles, men and centaurs arranged into double-row formation. The front row of men crouches low as the back row of centaurs remains standing. At their center is a flame-haired young man, his face etched in pain and pity. Every vigile except him has an arrow aimed at my chest. I thrust my hands above my head, then notice they've brought the cart—the walled-in, portable pen that provides a prisoner less space than a coat closet. I can't remember the last time we had to use it, when the last blood crime was committed.

A hunched old woman dressed in a faded floral wrap of thin wool runs up to the vigile in charge. His height and flaming shock of red hair make my cousin hard to miss.

"That's him," she squawks, jutting her finger at me as if they don't know who she means. "Screaming, I heard screaming and there he was with that poor little girl's neck in his hands."

"I didn't do this," I say to myself. I have no memory of what she says I did. I wouldn't do such a thing. Not to my children, not to my babies. But here is Elena, my friend and neighbor for the past five years accusing me of just that.

"I sent Orpheus straight to the call box. It was too late though. That monster bashed his children—" She gasps for breath unable to finish the sentence. "I saw it. I saw it." She breaks down as a lanky man with bowed legs wraps his long arms around her.

"Thank you, ma'am," Iolalus says. He speaks gently, but with authority. "We'll see to it from here. Now, please step back."

She shoots a curse-filled look at me as her son, Orpheus, guides her back from the scene.

"Cousin, will you come with us?" Iolalus asks.

I hold Iolalus's gaze, give a nod, and then walk slowly to him. Two other vigiles come from behind, stretching high to grab my hands so they can bind my wrists into cuffs. Knowing they can't reach them, I lower my hands and ease them behind my back. Under the watch of a band of archers I've personally trained, I make each movement slow and steady. With practiced speed, the two vigiles lock my wrists into hard leather bands joined by a short piece of steel chain. The men step away as four centaurs form a wall around me.

More neighbors appear from their homes, gaping their mouths and pointing at the spectacle.

"I didn't do this," I say still holding Iolalus's gaze as he steps in closer to me. I look to the cart. Icy sweat beads on my brow and my knees give a betraying tremble. "Please don't put me in there."

Iolalus looks me over. I know I'm being evaluated by my keen younger cousin. He knows people; it's one of the rare skills he has over me. Even if Iolalus could never win a wrestling match against me—although he has come close on occasion—he can guess a man's intentions simply by looking at him. I've often wondered if my cousin doesn't have a touch of oracle blood in his veins.

Iolalus nods. "The cuffs have to stay though until we get to the arena and it'll be Eury's decision if you're kept in the cart during or after your trial. As much as I'd like to, I can't override the Solon. Come, we have to go."

He guides me with a gentle touch on the arm.

Already the bells are ringing. The announcement of a public event in the arena. Not a game this time. Not a wedding. Today the people of Portaceae will be distracted from the mundane reality of their lives by a trial.

As the vigiles march me to the arena in the heart of Portaceae City, a procession gathers behind us. The mile-long journey passes like a dream as I continue to mutter, "I didn't do this," as if saying it often enough can make it true.

Once to the arena, I follow Iolalus through the building's rear entrance where he unlocks my cuffs and tucks them into the belt of his tunic without comment of why he's going against protocol. We emerge from the darkness of the structure's underbelly and step out to the center of the arena's sand and dirt floor.

During the last Osterian Games I won the laurel after wrestling and defeating eleven opponents in this dusty mix. The victory gave Portaceae a short-lived renewal of her former glory. Back then—standing in the center of the floor of Osteria's largest arena, gazing up at the towering columns that provided support for stands that held thousands of people—I was filled with pride for my polis.

As a prisoner, the arena takes on a different countenance. The columns loom over me like giants on the attack, the walls of the arena floor hem me in, and the murmuring beehive buzz of the crowd delivers an eerie shiver down my spine. It's a far cry from the jests and jeers that typically accompany a trial and a world away from the cheers I'd earned three years ago.

I didn't do this, my mind screams. I don't remember doing this. I didn't do this.

With Iolalus by my side, I stand, not shifting, not fidgeting, but holding myself straight and tall as I've been trained to do since my sixteenth year.

The summer sun moves slowly over the arena. It doesn't set, but instead lingers at the edge of the arena as if the gods don't dare take their eyes off me. Finally, the trumpets blare to announce the arrival of the Solon. I square my shoulders as my elder cousin, the leader of Portaceae, steps onto the dais that perches above the arena floor.

"Finally," Iolalus says. "Gods be with you, cousin."

"Hera protect Portaceae," I say.

"Not for the past thirty years she hasn't." He claps me on the shoulder. "Good luck, Herc."

He steps back as I wait to be judged.

## CHAPTER TWO

### _Eury_

THE BELLS. GODS, why do they have to be so loud? I wouldn't give up being Solon for a night with Hera herself, but I cannot bear those damned bells. After all, I rule Portaceae. I should have the say when I'm needed at the arena, rather than being summoned with this obnoxious pealing as if I'm a common kitchen servant being called to lay out the evening meal. But duty calls, or rings in my case. I grin at my wit as I pull the sheets up over my head to block out the late afternoon light. Surely, the people can wait another few minutes.

"Excellency," Baruch announces from behind the closed bed chamber door. His smooth voice jerks me from my dozing slumber. "Hera awaits."

I wriggle the sheets up further over my head. First the bells and now Hera. Can a man not rest peacefully in his own bed?

Before dragging myself to begin the day's tasks, I lean over to kiss Adneta between her ample breasts. She moans and reaches for me. Unfortunately, with Portaceae's patron goddess in the house I must ignore the surge in my groin. Unlike the people of the city, Hera will not abide waiting, nor will it benefit me to leave her twiddling her thumbs. It suits her vanity when mortals come running to her whenever she demands it. An inconvenient annoyance when you're the one doing the running, but play to her vanity and Hera can be as easily duped as any naïve shopper trying to haggle for a bargain in the agora.

I fling the covers back causing Adneta to yelp despite the warmth of the sun seeping into our bed chamber. She shoots me a harsh glare, but then quickly mollifies the look into a flirty pout.

"Bring me something back," she says. I blow her a kiss before entering my dressing chamber, but my wife entirely misses the gesture as she slips back under the sheets

In the room adjoining the bed chamber, Baruch busies himself with laying out my clothes. I watch his long, elegant hands as they delicately sweep a piece of lint from the garments. Going solely on the beauty of his fingers, one would never think he is a servant. My stocky digits, even with their manicured nails, look no more regal than those of a field worker. I tuck my hands behind my back. I ignore the voice of my mother in my head telling me I'm foolish to compare myself to a mere servant. Once the clothing meets Baruch's approval, I squirm into my tunic and he dresses me in the formal attire of a public gathering. As he arranges the folds of the black silk toga until they flow like water over my frame, the scent of mint floats from his lips. I fish my tongue around my mouth wondering about the state of my own breath.

After slipping and securing calf-leather sandals onto my feet, Baruch places the Solonian Chain over my shoulders. The gold neckpiece is shorter than when I became Solon—several of the links having been clipped away to be melted into jewelry for Adneta—but it still retains enough loops to leave the Solon's amulet, a gold-plaited peacock feather, resting just above my heart.

Only once he steps back and nods approval at his work does Baruch hand me my scepter and place a jewel-encrusted crown on my head. Does he know that all but one of the jewels are paste? The true gems became gifts to my loving wife within the first year of our marriage. I eye the scepter wondering how much can be trimmed off its length without drawing notice.

Baruch steps aside to allow me a glance into the mirror. I scan myself with pride from the crown resting amongst my black curls to the gold-embroidered chain of peacock feathers at the bottom hem of my toga. Despite a crooked nose that no medic can force straight, I look exactly the part I was born for: the Solonship of Portaceae.

"I assume Hera is in the Gods' Room."

"Yes, Excellency."

"You heard the bells. You'll need to ready the carriage. My people are beckoning me."

"Of course, Excellency."

He holds the door to the hallway open for me, remaining behind as I stride to the stairway that leads to the third floor of the Solon's villa—to the Gods' Room. The _click-clack_ of my sandals slapping the hall's marble floor echoes in the vast interior of my mansion.

As always, the climb up the sweeping staircase's forty-two steps gives me time to guess what Hera wants. No doubt this time her visit relates to the call to the arena, but I hope whatever the situation is won't take long. In only a couple hours there is a party that I have no intention of missing. The Karadimos, the one family in Portaceae City whose company I can bear, will be breaking out some vintage Illamos Valley wine. Wine that costs over three hundred drachars a bottle being poured for free. One doesn't miss an occasion like that for a mere public meeting.

The thought of the party brings a parched tightness to my throat. Gods, I could use a glass of wine even if it's the kitchen swill made by the people of the city using scraps of fruit they've gleaned from outside the city gates. Hera is never an easy goddess to deal with, but a helping of the grape makes any meeting with her go much more smoothly. I try to keep stashes of wine in the wall niches along the stairway. Unfortunately, the servants always tidy up my stockpiles. My peek into each niche, just in case one bottle has been left unnoticed, causes me to lose count of the steps.

If only I'd been born to the Illamos Valley, I think as I trudge up riser after riser. Dionysus always strikes me as an amusing god to serve. But, alas, I've been blessed with the rule of Portaceae. And Hera. Rumor has it that decades ago she was an amiable goddess. Maybe not friendly or warm, but she at least cared for her polis. To think of the things I could get Adneta if I'd been Solon in my grandfather's day when Portaceae was the envy of every other city-state in Osteria.

I pass the final wall niche—as empty of wine as all the others—and pause at the top of the stairs to catch my breath and gather my composure. After wiping the sweat from my brow onto my sleeve, I grip the door's peacock-shaped handle and mutter to myself a curse on Hera if the door doesn't open. If Hera has changed her mind and gone on to other business, the knob won't turn and I'll have made the climb for nothing. Whether it is her idea of a joke or she simply changes her mind, her abandoning the Gods' Room after summoning me is something Hera does much too often. I clench the knob tighter and give a twist. Today my leg-burning efforts are rewarded by the clasp slipping out of its latch and the door swinging open.

An assaulting brightness forces me to squint my way into the vast room. The brilliant summer light streams in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up each wall except the one I've entered through. The God's Room isn't a room, but an entire floor of my home Hera had insisted upon when I had the abandoned villa refurbished. I would love to use the space for drinking parties or for a good romp with Adneta. Unfortunately, as part of Hera's design, the door remains locked unless Hera waits inside.

Despite the sun blaring in, the room is blissfully cool. I hear the snap of fingers and the windows darken enough for me to fully open my eyes. Hera, lounging on a simple, yet elegantly curved chaise, eyes me. She manages to grin and scowl at the same time—an unnerving expression she's quite good at, but one that I can't manage no matter how much time I spend trying to copy it in front of my dressing room mirror.

The sight of her briefly pushes away thoughts of Adneta's delightful body. I can't fathom how Zeus, Hera's wandering husband, doesn't lust for his wife. I thank the gods for the layers of silk that cover my groin as Hera's shimmering silver gown hugs her perfectly curved body.

I bow to her, the motion uncomfortable with the ache the toga hides.

"You heard the bells?" she asks.

"They woke me, yes."

She gives me a judgmental look, but I refuse to feel guilty over enjoying my marital bed. Especially given how much I pay for what happens in that bed.

"Your cousin is on trial." Her eyes glint and a cruel smile mars her refined features. She slides off the chaise and steps toward me. Her bare feet make no sound on the floor.

To my disappointment, the goddess makes no move to come toward me and instead steps over to one of the windows. Like a dog after a bitch, I follow Hera, stopping close enough to touch her. With great effort, I force my hands to stay by my sides. How does the leader of Vancuse handle his meetings with Aphrodite, the most beautiful of goddesses, when I can barely control myself with Hera, the one who is supposed to be the most matronly?

"Which cousin?" I ask. She turns with a confused look on her face as if I've just been speaking Middish. "Iolalus or Herc?" I clarify.

"The latter."

My heart leaps. So, the great Herc has done wrong at last. The Hero of Hestia, the laurel-winning wrestler, the man who I have no doubt the people of Portaceae would prefer take the Solonship has committed a crime. My nose throbs and my face twitches as I try to maintain a neutral expression.

"There's no need to hide that grin. You know I can't stand the bastard either."

The smirk I tried to suppress crawls across my lips. If only my father could see Herc now, would he be so proud? Would he still wish his sister-in-law's bastard son was his own? As children, my father would goad Herc and me into wrestling bouts. Even though Herc promised he was holding back, he bested me every time. Once, in my frustration, I put my cousin in a chokehold—against the rules except in the most vicious of back alley fighting pits. It took only a slight shift of weight and he flung me over his shoulders. I landed poorly and somehow managed to break my nose. My father could only laugh as Herc helped me up. I shouted my hatred at them both through the blood streaming out of my nostrils. Did my father call a medic? Did he ask if I was all right? No, he merely scoffed at me saying he wished he had a son like Herc to call his own.

"A bastard? I'm sure you have plenty," I accused. "And you," I shot a finger at Herc, "you will be glad that the Solonian crown does not yet sit upon my head. Otherwise, I would have you executed for treason."

My father narrowed his eyes and said in a cool, level tone, "You, Eury, are the only bastard I've created." He then stood, apologized to Herc for my behavior, and escorted him home. I can still recall Herc looking back at me with a glance that was a mixture of apology and pity as my mother rushed to my side.

Even now as I near my thirtieth year of life, every glory of Herc's sends an ache through my nose. With Hera's news, my nose suddenly feels as straight and regal as the one that sits on Baruch's face.

"My dear Hera." I hold my hand out to her and she takes it. _She is indeed in a good mood._ I lead her to the chaise and we sit side by side like lovers. "Now, tell me, what has my cousin done?"

She pinches her lips trying to suppress a laugh. Her eyes water as a couple snorts escape her nostrils. Through her amusement she's barely able to say the words: "Murdered his children."

She cackles. The sound and the information hit me like one of Zeus's lightning bolts. My smile caves as an uncharacteristic wave of pity washes over me for my cousin. He just lost Megara not even a year ago. Complications during the birth of Cassandra or some such thing. And, with no sons of my own, I should have hated his son Sergio who sat third in line to my crown until Adneta produced a son. But if Hera speaks the truth that boy is no longer. The charming child, his clever twin sister, and the baby are gone.

"How? He wouldn't. He loved them."

Hera lets out a dismissive sound and rolls her eyes.

"You have a case to judge. Be sure you don't let him take the easy way out."

"But I—"

"We'll talk later. We have much to discuss."

With that, she vanishes into a foggy mist.

Filled with a mix of grief and elation I head down to the courtyard where Baruch waits beside my carriage. Four of my Solonian Guards stand behind and to the sides of the vehicle, ready to jog alongside as I travel to the arena. Each of the hand-picked guards is required to carry no less than one-quarter giant's blood. Their human side makes them bright enough to be able to follow commands, but their giant line makes them half again as tall as any man with triple a man's muscle and endurance. They're a formidable force loyal to me, unlike the vigiles who spend their loyalty on Herc, their commander. I hoist myself into the ornate contraption, plunk down into the plush leather seat, and draw the curtains.

As Baruch twitches the two black stallions into a walk, I thank the gods that my mother was able to squeeze me out those precious few hours before Alcmena brought my cousin into the world. Herc—big, bulky, athletic, and common—is suited for walking and traveling on horseback. I, better built for dancing than wrestling, am made for the luxury of my position. I deserve the ease and glamor of riding in a carriage pulled by two Astorian steeds—a privilege granted only to the Solon. Gods, if he were Solon, Herc would probably walk with the people as my grandfather did. Embarrassing.

Although I normally try to keep my cousin far from my mind, I lose myself in thoughts of Herc as the carriage rolls down the Solonian Hill and into the heart of Portaceae City. Could he have truly done this deed? My cousin has never seemed violent. Even in the wrestling ring, he would lose a match rather than give in to the cruel moves that—although not exactly against the rules—could cause enough physical damage to ruin his opponent's career. And, except when he was beating me at my father's request, Herc has always tried to protect me. At thirteen, when my rule first began, I'd even considered taking Herc as one of my guards, but my mother who served as regent until I turned sixteen advised against it: "One doesn't let the person next in line to the Solonship guard the person on the Solon's throne." Wise words. At her advice, I formed the Solonian Guard and kept Herc at a distance ever since.

In little time, the carriage jerks to a halt. Surely we can't be at the arena. It's too quiet. Where are the hoots and hollers of people demanding a good show? I pull back the curtain to see the large square stones of the arena and the gaps where mortar has crumbled away. Baruch opens the door and I step out. Tinny trumpets announce my arrival and, followed by my guards, I make my way into the rear entrance. Once in, I pass through a wide tunnel. Stairs to my left would take me three stories up to my box seat, while stairs to the right lead up to the control room that hasn't functioned for anything but a storage room for decades.

Thankfully, to judge a trial, I'm able to bypass another round of stair climbing. In my layers of judicial clothes and with the stifling summer evening heat, the exertion might melt me. Instead, I go straight, following a steep, zigzagging ramp that brings me to the dais. To the right of where the ramp begins, another shallower incline delivers defendants, entertainers, and competitors to the arena floor. What had Herc thought when he passed through that door? Did he wonder if he would be alive when he passed through it again?

Stepping onto the dais, I take in the arena. The massive screen that once showed events from Osteria's other poli still remains dark, but has gained a new bird's nest in one of its corners since last week when I was required to cast judgment over some Athenian who had stolen a loaf of bread. Such a waste of time. I roll my eyes and notice a crack in one of the columns holding up the south balcony has grown deeper and wider since my last visit. I shrug it off. After all, if the thing has held this long, it will surely be fine for another several years.

In the center of the dais stands the cushioned Solonian chair that has been brought down from my box. The rounded back is embroidered with multi-colored thread to resemble a peacock tail while the legs end in feet that look like those of a bird. I raise my hands in greeting, command silence, and then feel foolish for the automatic order. This crowd cannot get any quieter. Disrespectful it is. At the very least they should cheer my entrance. But I suppose silence is better than the undeserved insults I frequently faced upon entering the arena.

Since I can't take my cue to begin the proceedings from the quieting of the crowd, I take it from Iolalus stepping back from Herc.

Even from the dais that rises half a giant's height above the floor of the arena, I feel dwarfed by my cousin. Herc stands proud and tall. The low sun makes him glow, showing off muscles I'm not even sure I possess.

Without thinking to stop it, my hand brushes over my robes, which now seem to do little to hide the small paunch I've grown over the past few years. I snort at my insecurity. After all, which of us is up here and which is down there? I thrust my chin up, stare down the length of my nose at Herc, and notice the blood spattering the front of his white tunic.

_Damning evidence to wear to a trial, cousin._

I push my shoulders back, ease into my chair and tap the scepter three times on the floor of the dais to start the proceedings.

"State your name," I say sticking to formality.

"Hercules Dion, son of Alcmena."

This generates a hum from my subdued audience. It's the surname of the father that citizens of Portaceae attach to their names in formal situations. But Herc has never known his father. Alcmena never told him or anyone else who she'd bedded to breed my hulking cousin. In his youth Herc faced no end of ridicule for his lack of paternity. But with his heroics on the streets and in the arena over the years, he has become a favorite of the people—too much a favorite for my taste—and the criticisms have mostly faded away.

"And what do you stand accused of?"

Herc swallows as his chin wavers. Oh, it would be wonderful if he cried. It would really add to the show. He shifts on his feet, looks down to them and then, with a deep inhale, pulls himself back up to his rigid vigile stance.

"Blood crime," he says with a slight shake of his deep voice.

That wakes the people up. Shouts of disbelief rush over the tiers of seating. In the next wave of shouts, the insult that plagued him when he was young erupts from several areas of the stands.

"Monster!"

_Monster_. Yes, he had been known as that. "Bastard Monster" was another variation he'd earned after breaking a boy's arm. Granted the boy had been insulting me, calling me "Rat Weasel" for my large front teeth and long face that took years to grow into the lean, strong countenance I bore now. And granted, Herc didn't know I had just taken the boy's wooden horse from him, but the moment the boy laid a hand on me knocking the horse from my grip, Herc burst from out of nowhere and shoved the boy away from me. The idiot child stumbled over the toy, landed badly, and broke his arm. Complete bad luck, but he'd made sure to tell everyone that Herc, for no reason, had come up, twisted his arm back, and then laughed when it snapped.

I suppose I should have defended my cousin, but I didn't want my own crime of stealing the toy exposed so I stayed out of the matter. With his brawny size even at that age and his bastard status, Herc, despite being one of the grandsons of the current Solon, was deemed a monster and became an outcast until he joined the vigiles.

Now, the name has come back to life. Herc again shifts on his feet. His eyes dart across the arena. I let the crowd have their fun for a few moments before calling order with two taps of my scepter.

"Do you have witnesses to defend you?"

"No, Excellency."

"Are there witnesses to stand against you?"

A wrinkled hag with a hunched back calls out as she hobbles her way to the edge of the stands. Someone opens one of the gates and she cautiously climbs down the stairs to the floor of the arena.

"Your name?"

"Elena Keros, mother of Orpheus Keros," she replies denoting her own father is dead, but that she has another male relation in her father's line.

"And you witnessed a blood crime committed by the man next to you?"

She looks to her left and, as if she doesn't know damn well that Herc is there, gives a little squeak of terror as she staggers back a few steps clutching the tattered hem of her collar.

"Yes, Excellency," she says with a waver in her voice. "He had his youngest child by the neck. He—I don't know, what he'd done but there was blood from one room to the next. He killed them all, all his little ones." Her voice grows higher and more frantic with each word. With a wail, she drops her face into her hands and a beanpole of a man rushes down to lead her away.

"Is there confirmation of this?" I ask. Someone has to back the witness. We can't have people making unfounded accusations just to settle a tiff. Although Hera has told me what happened and although I already know I will rule Herc guilty, I have to go through the proper protocol. After all, one has to give the appearance of being just and reasonable.

My flame-haired cousin steps forward.

"The scene is how she described it." Why can Iolalus never address me as _Excellency_ when he speaks to me? Would that be so hard? "Herc was the only one we found on the scene."

He steps back staring blankly ahead. The arena darkens as heavy, black-grey clouds roll over the city.

"Do you wish to confess?" I ask.

"I remember none of it," Herc says. "I cannot confess. I can't believe I did these things. You know I loved them." His throat catches and this time he does cry. I scan the crowd and roll my eyes when I notice more than a few people are also in tears.

"Because someone has witnessed against you and because of the severity of the case—"

"Please," Iolalus interrupts. "Please, he could pay tribute. He didn't—"

"Shut up, Iolalus," Herc says gently. Iolalus opens his mouth as if to say more, but then clenches his jaw forcing himself into silence.

"Are we done with the interruptions?" I pause and the arena remains hushed. "Because of the severity of what you've done, you will face the traditional punishment for a blood crime."

Herc doesn't flinch, no expression registers on his face. He had to have known his fate the moment he was arrested.

"As the day is late," I say, my mouth dry with the thought of the copious amounts of wine in my near future. Certainly I can't be expected to forego my party just to witness my cousin be buried alive. Besides, the thick bank of clouds scream rain is on the way and I don't want to loiter at the blood crime vault getting soaked when I could be with Karadimos getting sauced. "You will be held until tomorrow when justice will prevail. Take him to jail. In the cart."

At that, at the order to use the cart, Herc's body trembles. Truly trembles. I can see the muscles twitching, his legs shaking. How he does hate confined spaces. He has my mother to thank for that. Although my father doted on him, my mother had no love for Herc—the primary threat to her only son's future position. When my father wasn't around, any minor wrong—a towel placed incorrectly, a cup left out, a garment dirtied—earned my cousin the cruel and unusual forms of punishment she had developed especially for the child of her older sister. Punishments that apparently still scar him.

The sky begins spitting rain. My silks will not fare well in such weather. To hurry the close of the trial, I ignore the list of formalities I'm supposed to go through such as describing the history of the punishment, how the gods make their judgment, and an assortment of other mundane trivia. Instead, I stand, tap the scepter another three times to close the trial, and turn to leave.

"Please," Herc calls. "Allow me a vigile's death. Here. Now."

Is his fear so bad that he can't handle the thought of a night in a jail cell? Or can he not live another twelve hours with the guilt of what he's done?

"Come on," someone yells from the crowd. "Show mercy." The crowd joins in on this plea. Are they mad? Only moments ago they'd been calling him a monster.

I hesitate, stopping just at the edge of the ramp. A quick slice to the throat and Herc the Hero would no longer be a threat to my position. The vigile's death would have him out of my way as well as saving me the bother of getting up early tomorrow morning to witness his burial. Certainly, to let him take the knife now will involve a few rituals I'll have to pretend to be interested in and there will be a handful of documents to sign, but Karadimos should have enough wine to last if Adneta and I show up an hour or so late. It would be worth missing out on the start of the reverie to be rid of this fallen hero before me.

I turn back, ready to agree to the request, to let Iolalus open Herc's throat and be done with the matter. I raise the scepter. Just as I am about to call the trial back to order, I recall Hera's words not to let my cousin take the easy way out. In matters relating to Herc, her most hated mortal, I don't dare go against the goddess's commands no matter how tempting.

With a flick of my wrist, I tuck the scepter under my arm and continue down the ramp trying to move as calmly, as regally as possible. But when the crowd erupts in angry shouts, I scurry to the carriage and slam the door behind me.

## CHAPTER THREE

### _Herc_

"LET'S GO, HERC," Iolalus says as he guides me to the cart that's still hitched to its horse outside the arena. I can't control the shaking in my muscles. My breaths come in short gasps as my heart thuds a rapid beat in my ears. My legs freeze refusing to step inside the dark confines of the cart. Iolalus looks around. "Eury's gone. I'll let you walk, if that'll be easier."

_I don't deserve easy. I deserve the worst torments ever imagined._

I curse myself for my earlier plea for a vigile's death. Did my children get to choose how they died? Did they get to live without fear in their last moments in this world?

I step up to the walled cart. Without question, Iolalus unlocks the door and pulls it open. My legs weaken as the hinges let out a howling creak. Even with the door gaping wide, the cell's interior remains murky. What light does get in shows the remnants of webs and casings from spiders that have been decorating the box since its last use.

"You don't have to," Iolalus says.

"Yes, I do." I climb inside ducking my head down to fit in the cramped pen. I pull the door shut after me. The harpy-like noise of its hinges grates on my ears and blasts ice down my spine. The box, built for an average sized man, pins me in, forcing me to contort my shoulders. Even this doesn't ease the pressure of the wood walls against my sweaty skin that has chilled with fear. The chill doesn't last long. Still hot from sitting in the sun, the stagnant air of the cell turns to stifling with my harried breathing.

But I deserve this and every other discomfort the minds of gods and men can devise.

Elena saw me do it. The woman who had given me strawberries from her garden in the spring and tomatoes in the summer, who had cared for my children and me after Meg died. She saw my hands on my babies' throats. She heard the screams of their last breaths. She witnessed at my trial and Iolalus confirmed it. She knows more about the deaths of my children than I do. And that, that I don't even recall any of the deed, notches what I have done to another level of unforgiveable.

So, as the cart jostles along driving splinters into my flesh, I know I have brought every piece of mental and physical anguish the gods can muster upon myself.

From outside the cart I can hear the clipping of centaurs' hooves. They will be surrounding the cart, guarding their prisoner. People must have already spilled out of the arena to line up along Portaceae's rutted roads. Despite their near silence in the arena, they now find their voice in shouts, jeers, and pleas.

"Kill the bastard monster."

"How could you?"

"Set our hero free."

I wrench my hands up to cover my ears, but the moment my palms come near my face the feral scent of dried blood hits me. Which of my children's blood is it? Or have they all mingled?

Slowly the shouts die down. We will be passing through Portaceae City's gates and into the surrounding land outside the city walls. Rather than follow the distance to the jail, the people of the city will return to whatever work they had been occupying themselves with before the call to the arena sounded.

Not long after the cries of the people die away, the cart lurches to a stop. A key clatters in the lock and Iolalus greets me with a reassuring smile. I peel myself out of the box. My shoulders throb from the pressure and the pieces of wood that have embedded themselves into my skin. The humid conditions inside the cart nearly match those outside. Even if the heavy clouds give no more rain, the looming pressure in the air signals an electrical storm is on its way.

After releasing the other vigiles from their duty for the day, Iolalus leads me into the jail, a small stone building on the outskirts of Portaceae City. The structure had once been the home of Portaceae's founder, but as Portaceae City, the capital of the polis, grew up closer to the junction of the Illamos and Great Rivers, the house found a new purpose: to keep prisoners outside the city walls.

Before stepping through the door, I look into the distance. On the horizon stands Hera's temple silhouetted by the last light of this long day. Also built at the time of Portaceae's founding, the temple was poorly located and found itself barred from inside the capital's walls. The temple keeps itself at a distance as if the goddess expects the people of the city to come to her.

With morbid fascination, I can't pull my eyes away from the aloof structure. Tomorrow I'll be taken there to be sent under. They will lock me into a metal coffin that is even smaller than the walled cart, lower me into the stone-lined blood crime vault, seal it off, and leave me there for the turn of one moon. I will face a fear that will be miniscule compared to what my children must have endured. It will be up to the gods to decide my innocence. If I survive, I didn't do those horrible acts. If I die, then the gods' justice will have been served. I have no doubt the gods will take me. And, as I now have nothing to live for, I don't care.

Iolalus takes me to a cell, a true cell this time with bars, bunk beds, dank smell of wet stone, and faint light coming through a high window. The small quarters would normally pique my fear, but after being in the cart, the cell greets me like a spacious relief. Iolalus slides back the barred gate and I enter. Before I can turn around, the gate rattles and closes with a crash.

My cousin reaches his hand through the bars. I take it. The calluses on his fingers from pulling the strings of many bows rub against my palm. Instead of shaking it, he just holds my aching hand in his comforting me and making my heart swell with agony and gratitude.

"I guess our boar hunt is off?" he asks with a weak smile.

The boar. After weeks of the animal ravaging fields and attacking people in the wooded grove of Forested Park, the vigiles had tracked him to his lair. Iolalus and I were supposed to have led a team this evening to capture the beast and was why I'd donned my treaded sandals. I recall the bloody marks the tread left on the floor of my home. The taste of bile fills my mouth again at the memory. After letting the bitterness burn my tongue a moment, I force the foul substance back down.

"I suppose it is. Take a group tomorrow. Make a feast of the thing."

"Is there anyone you want to see?" Iolalus asks as tears well in his eyes.

"No." Who would I ask for? Everyone I love is dead except for him.

"The people always wanted you, you know that don't you? There's been word among the vigiles of ousting Eury and making you Solon."

I had heard the rumors. Several legions of Portaceae's vigiles were said to be plotting a coup. They want to remove Eury—and I have no doubt the removal would be violent. By the laws of Portaceae, as the next oldest male in Nikos's line I would inherit the Solonship if Eury dies. The mere mention of the coup or of anyone else being Solon is treason and I had given express orders for the men and centaurs under my command to have no part of it. We have a duty to the Solon that must be upheld regardless of how little we like the man. Had Iolalus gone against my orders?

"A good thing they didn't. They would have been ruled by a man even worse than our cousin. At least he's just lazy. I'm—" I trail off, unable to give voice to what I have proven myself to be. A monster, just as I'd been named so many years ago.

Iolalus gives a disapproving sigh. I pull my hands out of his and wipe my eyes. Only after do I wonder if I've painted my face by streaking the blood from my hands through my tears.

"Gods be with you, Herc."

"Hera protect Portaceae."

Iolalus snorts. "Hera's a bitch, Herc. Don't ever forget that."

Despite everything, I laugh at his blasphemy and at the fact that I won't live long enough to forget anything ever again.

He steps back, gives the sharp bow a vigile gives to a senior member, stands straight, and marches off. As second-in-command under me, he will now advance to vigile leader. He's young, but it's a post he will take to with ease and plenty of support. Watching him as long as I can through the bars, I notice him wipe his own eyes then touch his hand to the charm that dangles from a leather lace around his neck before he disappears out of my view.

I turn to look at the cell. Suddenly it seems too small, too confined, and the consuming rush of panic hits me. My hand automatically flies to my own charm—a peacock that clutches a dozen arrows in its feet and symbolizes my status as commander of Portaceae's vigiles. Seeking comfort from the familiar object, I grip the metal bird so tightly the twelve arrows pierce into my palm sending my own blood trickling across my hand. As the walls of the cell creep in on me, I press myself up against the frigid bars as if I can squeeze myself out between them. The metal gate clatters as tremors rattle through my body

Just as I'm about to cry out for someone, a pair of legs swings over the edge of the top bunk. The mattress squeaks as a man sits up and peers at me. The faint evening light that trickles through the window glints off the man's bald head. He reaches for something. Without more light, I can't see what he's stretching for and tense my muscles ready for an attack. With a hiss, the cell bursts with brightness that quickly fades to a warm glow.

"We're not supposed to have candles, but it's not like anyone checks."

With the candlelight near his face I can now see he's old, not as old as Elena, but still creased with wrinkles that extend like a delta from his eyes and carve river beds along the sides of his mouth.

"I heard what your friend there said about Hera," he says. His voice has a thick, yet melodic sound to it. He isn't from Portaceae. A polis up north perhaps.

"I'm sorry, he meant no offense." Talking to someone helps ease my panic, although I can still feel it trying to pierce the gauze-thin layer of calm I've draped over myself. "May I?" I point to the wooden bench on the wall opposite the bunks.

"Be my guest. Name's Stavros Paulos." It's odd hearing someone introduce himself without including his father's name. After spending a lifetime without having one to attach to mine, I can't say I don't mind the omission. "And I'm not offended. Hera is a bitch, from all I hear. Ya hear that?" He shouts at the window, "A bitch."

"Quiet. You'll draw her wrath."

"Meh, she's too busy to notice."

"Busy?"

"It's the only sense I can make for the state of this polis. I used to come to Portaceae as a kid. My family took vacations here. I know little 'uns embellish things in their memories, but I've got a postcard back home that proves Portaceae used to be one of the grandest poli there ever was. You had the most beautiful, most enviable, wealthiest city in all Osteria. Buildings gleamed, roads were so smooth they seemed like they were paved with marble and the people – oh, the people. I swear it on the gods' robes, you were the some of the most attractive people my eyes have been blessed to land on, second only to the Vancusians. Now you lot are a disheveled mess, your polis is in a downward financial spiral, and you can't blink without a building falling on you."

It's nothing I haven't heard before, but hearing it from an outsider bristles my already frayed nerves.

"Why are you here then?" I ask curtly.

"Here jail or here Portaceae?"

I shrug. "Both."

"I'm here in jail because I stole a loaf of bread."

"Stealing's not a crime where you come from?"

"It's a crime across Osteria, but what's a man to do? That python of a Solon you have has squeezed this polis tighter than Hera's twat. I'm not sure if Hera herself could wring out a single drachar after his management of this polis, not that she'd try. She's neglected you all. You know that, don't you? You do, but you won't admit it. The city's in disrepair. I know, I know." He holds up his hands to stop my defense. "It's the earthquakes. But every polis is seeing an increase in them. Still, when one happens where I come from, if a building falls, we build it again, better and stronger than before. You Portaceans just seem to leave them weakened until they collapse on your heads. And that's why I stole. My daughter and grandchildren live here. Their building fell a few weeks ago. Her husband was killed and they've been left with nothing. Since Portaceae doesn't give out free bread like most other poli, they were near starving. I stole some bread to fill their empty bellies. Hera forgive me."

He pauses for a moment. Whether to catch his breath or let his words sink in, I'm not sure. It's true, my cousin has done little for the polis, but has he been taking wealth from it? Is Hera blind to his faults and crimes or does she allow them? I don't have time to form answers to these questions as Stavros continues talking.

"To add dung to the pile, I'm a scapegoat. That's why I'm here in Portaceae, not home in Athenos where you'd think being an engineer would count for something."

I recall the term scapegoat from school. Portaceae doesn't follow the ritual, perhaps because if we kicked someone out for a year, they wouldn't come back. The idea was that each year one person would symbolically take on all the state's sins and leave the polis for one year. Over the year, the sins would fall away from the scapegoat who, at the end of the year, could return to his polis as another scapegoat took his place. It had always seemed an odd idea to me, but the prospect of traveling to other poli drew my interest. And now, the idea of ridding myself of sin appeals as much to me as nectar to a bee.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"You're familiar. Your eyes, maybe." He squints at me in the candlelight. "What'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't. It's Herc Dion, short for Hercules." I rise up and extend my hand. He doesn't take it and instead shifts about on the bed causing it to cry out in mousy squeaks.

"I'm, oh, I'm sorry," he stammers. "Your cousin."

"Calm yourself, I'm not his spy." I extend my hand again and this time he shakes it. His hand is knobby, but the skin feels smooth.

"That's it, your grandfather was Nikos. I remember seeing him in person when I was a boy. Your face, strong just like his. He was much admired."

"Quite. One of the best, people say. It was always odd in school hearing about his great deeds from my teachers when every Godsday he would be at our house, playing with me, tossing me around like a toy. Until I grew too big for such games." I smile at the memory.

"And you're not leader? Why? You certainly look—" he pauses scanning me up and down looking for the right word, "—qualified."

"Rule is hereditary in Portaceae. Nikos had three girls. Zoe was the youngest; Rena, Eury's mother, was the middle child; and my mother, Alcmena, was his oldest."

I stand to stretch, stepping over to the window that is level with my eye. The temple glows in the moonlight that has forced its way through the clouds, but the beauty of the scene is ruined by the stench coming from the buckets in the corner of the cell.

"Then your mother should have become leader and you after her. We have elected leaders in Athenos, but that's how they do it in Cedonia."

I turn back to him. The earlier contempt in his face is gone, replaced with curiosity.

"No, women don't rule in Portaceae. They can be regents, but it's the next male born in the Solon's line that leads after he dies. When both my mother and Rena became pregnant at the same time, there was a flurry of bets and whispers."

"Whispers?"

"My mother wasn't married. To make things worse, she refused to tell anyone who my father was. Some people even said it was an Incubus who ravaged her. To her dying day she never uttered the name of my sire."

"That's not right. A man should be a father to his children." The words sting. What kind of father had I been to my children? "Well, go on. What's the rest?"

"My mother went into labor first and people actually started collecting their bets. A midwife arrived, one unfamiliar to my mother. My mother already had a midwife who had attended her through the pregnancy, her friend Agalia from the Augean District of Portaceae. The new midwife told Agalia that my mother no longer needed her services and sent her away. In the pain of labor, when my mother called out for Agalia, the new midwife said Agalia had been heavily drunk when my mother's call came and should be kept away."

"Who was the mystery midwife?"

"My mother never found out. She was in a beast of a labor and needed every trick in Agalia's bag. The pain had her in and out of consciousness for hours."

The words stir up memories of Meg withering away in agony to bring Cassie into the world. Stavros, wanting his story, doesn't let me linger long on the agony-ridden thought.

"I don't doubt it. Look at the size of you. You could never have been tiny."

"No, but I wasn't overly large either. In my mother's twentieth hour of labor, Rena's waters broke. Within an hour Eury was born."

"And you?" He asks the question as if he can't tell I made it out alive.

"Agalia, hearing rumors of my mother's strenuous labor, knew she had to take action or my mother would die. She sent a boy to tell the unknown midwife that Rena had birthed a son but needed assistance to stop the bleeding. The midwife gave my mother a final look— which my mother described as haughty— before she ducked out the door leaving my mother lying there with a baby still stuck in her womb. The moment the midwife stepped outside, Agalia rushed into my mother's house, locked the door, and tended to my mother. She said I was doing my best to get into the world, but each time I'd gain some ground it was as if an unseen hand would push me back in. I'd start out, and then back in I went. But under Agalia's care I was birthed only a few hours after Eury."

"If you'd only been born first." He shakes his head. "Bad luck."

"It's the only luck I seem to have."

"And is that why you're here? Bad luck? Or did you fail to kiss your cousin's ass?"

I don't want to tell him what I've done. If I do he will shun me, refuse to speak to me. I can't bear to be left in silence in this cramped cell. But I will not let the last words out of my mouth be a lie.

"Blood crime. They say I killed my family. I have no recollection of it, not a single moment. But I was witnessed."

Crickets chirp outside the cell, but inside silence reigns. Even the mattress doesn't squeak. Stavros stares at me as I slip down onto the bench again.

The shaking starts in my hands.

_The cell, had the walls been so close when I walked in? _

I jump up from the bench. One stride delivers me to the window.

_It took two or three before, didn't it? _

I look out, straining my head against the bars to take in the vastness of the world outside and suck in deep breaths of humid air.

"The gods can bring insanity." Stavros's voice whips me back around. The walls ease back, just a hand's breadth, but it's a start. "Even if it's only temporary."

"I don't mean to be rude, but I won't blame my actions on the gods."

"No, and that's exactly why I think your own mind wouldn't let you do this. You have honor, not murder in your veins. Are you being sent under?"

"In the morning."

"Would you like to sleep?"

"I don't think I could."

"Good. I miss talking to people. I'll tell you about Athenos, if that'll help take your mind away from your troubles."

I thank him and he begins his tales. Stavros has travelled across Osteria and not only tells me about Athenos, but about the other city-states and even details of the outlying kingdoms that make up the realm of Osteria. Thunder rumbles throughout the night, but the cell is never brightened by lightning. Stavros talks until the candle burns out and continues his tales despite the darkness. He only stops twice to take a cup of water from one of the buckets in the corner. Each time he sniffs the cup's contents before drinking. "There's certain mistakes you only make once."

In the morning, when a line of orangey pink begins to draw along the edges of the clouds that still litter the sky, a guard approaches the cell. Prepared for trouble, he has armed himself with a club in hand, dagger at his boot, and sword at his waist.

"Prisoner Dion, up now."

I stand and shake the knobby hand of my cellmate. "Thank you, Stavros. It was a good final night."

"Watch out for Hera, son, I don't think she favors you."

"No, sir, I don't think she does."

"Prisoner, now," the guard barks as he yanks the cell door open.

The moment I step out, the bars clank shut and three other guards flank me. Royal guards, Solonian Guards who serve Eury. My cousin is risking no chance on a fellow vigile taking pity on me. I march with them, trying to stay tall but my legs quaver under me.

We double time across the field that separates the jail from the temple. The movement eases the tension in my muscles until I remember it will be the last motion I'll experience. Or will be until I start trying to claw my way out from the blood crime vault desperate for air, desperate for space.

As we march I catch glimpses of the temple grounds and can see two people waiting in the area in front of the altar where the blood crime vault is. One will be a Herene, a priestess of Hera, the other should be Eury. But where is his carriage? My cousin rarely travels anywhere on foot and certainly would not walk such a distance at this early hour.

As I near, the clouds break apart in places and the low morning sun brings out the coppery brightness of the second person's hair. My heart clenches. Why did Iolalus have to come? I love him greater for it, but do not want this to be his last memory of me.

On my arrival to the temple, I want to say something to Iolalus, but the metal coffin already gapes open as if flaunting its tight interior. I halt in my tracks and the guards stop as one. The lead guard spins in an impressively quick about face.

"Prisoner, in."

I want to step forward. I want to make my sacrifice for what I have done, to let the gods judge me as I deserve to be judged, to die with honor. Instead, a warm liquid trickles down my leg.

Two of the guards snicker. Iolalus shoots them a harsh look but the Herene keeps her eyes forward.

"Blood crimer, in. You insult the gods."

"Enough of that," the Herene snaps. "Do not dare to presume you know the gods' minds."

I want to thank her, but my throat clenches tight. If I am lucky, my fear will suffocate me before the vault is sealed. But the guard is right. It's time to do my duty. On unsteady legs that feel no stronger than twigs, I step into the coffin. I pause a moment and look to Iolalus. Tears wash down his face, but still he stands tall and proud—once a vigile, always a vigile. I remove the braided leather strand that hangs around my neck. The silver peacock charm dangling from the cord glints in the morning light as I pass the symbol of my command over to Iolalus.

My eyes then meet the Herene's. With her white-blonde hair catching the pink light of dawn she emits a radiant beauty. I need beauty at this moment, not thoughts of what lay ahead.

Holding her gaze, I fold myself into the coffin. Her chin wavers and I look away. I don't want to see her cry. Not for me. I lean back into my final bed, keeping the Herene's image in my mind as the lid closes over me.

## CHAPTER FOUR

### _Eury_

JUST AS THE carriage rolls away from the arena, it jerks to a stop. My heart drops into my bowels that suddenly feel as loose as custard. My guards have warned me of a coup. Gods, why hadn't I brought them with me today? I should have been aware that any judgment against my cousin could be the ember on the vigiles' tinder.

I peek out the curtain expecting to see the angry faces of people on the attack for my ruling, to see vigiles with their swords drawn, to see how violently my death will come. But the way has only been blocked by the boisterous crowd spilling from the arena, most vigiles are only busy with keeping the masses organized, and no one is threatening my life. All eyes are focused on my murderous cousin. I push the curtain further back to get a better view.

Herc stops in front of the vigile cart. For a moment I think he won't get in, that Iolalus will allow him to remain free of the cart's confines like any free and innocent man. But Herc focuses his eyes on the box, mutters something, and steps inside. I close the curtain once more and laugh when I hear the jeers and taunts of the crowd as they hurl insults at the man they once called hero.

I strip off my crown, chain, and toga and toss them onto the bench seat opposite me. It's too perfect really. With this blood crime conviction, Herc's shining chest plate has tarnished in the people's eyes. I've wanted to be out of the shadow of my heroic cousin since I was a child, but the need to be rid of him has become especially urgent since talk of this coup sprang up like a weed whose roots infest your garden.

The carriage finally starts rolling again. I peer out once more. The crowd has thinned, the people returning to their daily chores, the vigiles returning to their patrols. There will be no coup today.

When my guards first told me the vigiles intended to depose me and put Herc in my place, I had wanted to order them to hurl Herc into the deepest pit they could find. Unfortunately, unless he directly committed a treasonous act against me, there was no way to do away with my cousin without my hands being dirtied by a blood crime or without turning my cousin into a rallying point for the people.

Still, all this is terrible timing. Don't get me wrong, I do hate my cousin, I do wish he never existed, but before this gossip of rebellion, I had been thinking I could make use of him. After all, if I can't wish him away, he might as well serve some purpose.

Adneta's wants have grown to impossible standards in recent months. For her last gift, she'd wanted one of the Herenes' birds—the sacred peacocks of Hera—dipped in gold and brought to her. My wife wasn't happy when I had Baruch bring home a peacock from the marketplace and cover it in a dusting of the gold powder he uses to add warmth to my pallid skin. No, not happy indeed. She withheld her pleasures from me for three weeks, until I finally caved in and did the deed. The head priestess of the Herenes raged for days over the matter, but I was too satisfied by my beloved's passionate enthusiasm to care.

She wants. I want. It's a fair exchange and I would obtain anything to make her happy if only I could. One day a few weeks previous as I lingered in the immense tub of my private bathhouse, I had mused that if only I were a bit more daring, a bit more like my brawny cousin I could get her more. Despite my paunch, I still retain the trim, leanly muscled figure of my youth, but once my grandfather died and my mother took the regency she had insisted I stop childish sports like wrestling and any activity she considered dangerous. Instead, she insisted I study dance. The exercise toned me, gave me the skill to move gracefully, and taught me how to carry myself as a Solon should, but did nothing to endow me with the muscular power of my cousins. My father bristled at her turning his only son into the "prancing Solon of Portaceae," but my mother's word had always been law and hers remained the ruling voice in all of Portaceae until I came of age.

By the time I was an adult, I had lost all interest in sports and now bed games with Adneta, a few autumnal hunts in Forested Park, and stair climbing at Hera's behest are my only regular athletic endeavors.

My cousin on the other hand seems always to be training, always ready for action, always working his body. There had to be some use for that. And I was just the man to discover it. I could send Herc on errands, telling him they were to benefit his treasured polis and he would have done them without question thanks to his unfathomable sense of duty. With the objects he could have obtained for me, Adneta's gratitude would have been so passionate, so constant we would have had to replace our bed every moon's turn.

The carriage lurches over a rut in the road and my shoulder rams into the vehicle's wall. I curse at Baruch, insult the workers who are to maintain Portaceae City's streets, then slump down in my bench seat rubbing my shoulder as irritation nibbles into me. Damn Herc Dion. He just never seems to play the part I want.

My stupid cousin has used his brawny gifts against his children ruining my hopes of using him to boost the frequency of my bedchamber enjoyment. To tell the truth, I still can't believe it. Those children were his world, especially after Meg's death. Seeing him in the agora playing with them, laughing at their childish observations made him seem a tad more human. Still, if the hag had seen him do it and our cousin who idolizes him confirmed it, there's little room left for doubt.

The bastard.

Ah well, certainly I'm clever enough to come up with another plan, a more reliable plan, one that requires less contact with Portaceae's supposed hero. I pick up my crown, pluck the final true gem from its setting, and drop the ruby into the pouch on my tunic's belt.

The carriage slows. It veers around a curve and I peer out to see we're approaching the courtyard of my villa. The horses stop with a snort and a heartbeat later, Baruch opens the door. I step out and cross the enclosure that, with its arched breezeway and bubbling central pool, cools the sultry evening air that smells of jasmine.

"There's no need to return it to the carriage house. We'll be going out again shortly. Also, return my judicial garments to the dressing chamber and prepare my clothes for tonight. Something festive, I think."

Baruch gives a curt nod and moves toward the breezeway that will take him to a back stairwell that runs between the servants' quarters in the basement to the main floors of the villa. Before he gets more than a few paces, Adneta slinks out from the breezeway, her steps making light crunching sounds on the pea gravel-lined paths of the courtyard. Her hips sway under a sheer gown and her corset is cinched tight enough to press her breasts up to a delicious swell. She nods to Baruch before turning her coy eyes to me. Like the magnets my mother had given me to play with as a boy, I am pulled to the Solonia in two strides, my head dipping down to kiss the platform of cleavage the corset creates. Before my lips meet her flesh, she catches my chin in her hand.

"What did you bring me?"

I press my hips into her thigh. "You'll have to unwrap it upstairs."

She pushes out of the embrace. Her dark eyes flame with annoyance and she whips around to head back under the breezeway. I catch her wrist, but she flicks my hand away.

"Adneta, my love," I plead.

She spins and, seeing the rage pinching her face, I stagger back a step.

"You haven't brought me anything for ages," she says with contempt before dropping her scowl into a pout. "If you loved me you would bring me things. Gold things, jeweled things. Not just," she steps in and squeezes my crotch, "hard things."

Her hand drops and as she glances at me from under her lashes she parts her lips. Gods, I'd give Hera's tits to have that mouth around me right now. I fish the ruby from my pouch and hold it out for her between my thumb and forefinger. When she tries to grab it, I close my hand over the gem, lean in, and give her lower lip a light bite. She moans and slides one hand along my groin as her other hand unlocks my fingers from the ruby.

Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I crush my lips against hers and thrust my tongue into her mouth. Pulling away from the kiss, I press down on her shoulders indicating what I want. She gives my lips another lick and drops the jewel into her cleavage as she lowers to her knees.

"Excellency," Baruch's deep voice calls from the breezeway just as Adneta is lifting my tunic. "Hera awaits."

"Gods be damned." I look down to Adneta, her cheeks blush. The yearning for what she'd been about to do sends an aching pulse through my body.

She moves to perch herself on the edge of the courtyard's central pool, her eyes darting from me to Baruch. I consider making Hera wait. The act certainly won't take long, not with Adneta's skills. But I resign myself to resist, hoping the anticipation will make it all that much better. I bend down, brushing my hands on her breasts as I whisper in her ear, "Later, my love. In the carriage."

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._

## CHAPTER FIVE

### _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 have 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."

What is going on? The register records all formal agreements—marriages, property sales, wills, work contracts. Any official act of the polis goes into the register and it's one of the Herenes many duties to keep Portaceae's register protected and up to date. What agreement can Eury possibly want to make with his cousin who he sentenced only last evening?

"You stay here," he says to Iolalus.

"Agrees to what?" I ask as Eury climbs the stairs to the temple. I jog up after him and Herc, who could just as easily have fled, follows after us taking the steps in six large strides.

Inside the temple, the columns make shadows over Hera's statue as the sun continues burning off the morning cloud cover on its ascent. Eury stands in the center of the temple, his back to the statue of Portaceae's patron goddess.

"Agrees to what?" I ask again, my voice echoing off the vaulted marble ceiling.

"A chance at life." The Solon smirks in a way that sets me on edge. I already know Eury isn't to be trusted with things I care about.

"But I've been convicted," Herc says keeping his voice low. "You sentenced me yourself."

"Cousin, I know," Eury says with feigned apology. "I looked into it, though. Herene, maybe you should have done your job before coming here and examined the law. You nearly killed this man." My nerves bristle. If anything could have saved Herc Dion, I would have done it. How dare this man, this pompous, corrupt excuse for a Solon say I don't know my job? Before I can respond to his insult, he continues. "There is another way to repay your, shall we say, indiscretion."

"Indiscretion? I killed my family. I killed them with my own hands. Their blood is still embedded under my nails. Sergio, Sofia, Cassandra." Herc raises his hands and thrusts them at his cousin, pushing them closer with each name. By the final name, his face is wrenched in agony. He drops his hands and turns his back on us.

So that's why he is here. Maxinia had only said he'd been convicted of blood crime, but would give no details. If I hadn't heard it from his own lips, I wouldn't have believed it. Not him, not the man who risked his life for mine. For my whole family.

"I know what you did," Eury says, "and it disgusts me. But the laws state that you can work for the polis to atone for your crime."

"Tributes are for thieves, not for blood crimers," Herc says, his back still turned away from us.

"But you're wrong. Nowhere in the law does it state that blood crimers such as yourself can't be included in the tribute system. You would be doing Portaceae a great favor. You can do things for the polis that no one else can."

While I don't want Herc to die, regardless of what he's done, I do not trust Eury.

Herc faces us. "One task cannot undo what I've done." The pain in his voice twists my belly in pity for him. This is not a man who could kill his children.

"I never said it would be a single task. Ten tasks. You will perform ten tasks in the name of Portaceae." Eury stalks a slow circle around us as he speaks. I move in closer to Herc, touching him on the arm, hoping to bring some comfort. He looks down to me, questioning me with his eyes. I shake my head indicating I have no idea what Eury is up to. "As you know, the polis is in desperate financial need. The tasks will earn us money, bring us treasures Osterians from the other eleven poli will want to see, and bring us esteem. The labors will restore some of our former glory. It will be a new beginning for Portaceae. But don't be mistaken, these labors will be dangerous. This isn't a simple thief's tribute of picking up litter or helping lay cobblestones. At each trial your life will be at risk."

"I would rather die fighting for Portaceae than in that box," Herc says.

"I had a feeling you'd say that." Eury stops in front of us. "But the box is still in play. If you're unable to finish a task or can't complete it in the time I command it be done, you will be subject to the original punishment. Understood?"

Herc gives a single nod.

"And if he completes them?" I ask. All aspects of this agreement need to be made clear. I don't want Eury to make up new rules at the end saying Herc will still be sent under.

Eury's cocky expression falls.

He's already decided Herc won't finish paying the tributes, I realize with sudden clarity.

"I, that is, then the gods will have made their judgment I should think. Do you agree or not?" he asks Herc impatiently.

"If I can do something to benefit Portaceae, then of course I agree."

"Good." Eury smacks his hands together and the sound snaps through the temple. "The law states if a person paying tribute should need an assistant, the individual of your choice may join you."

The slap of leather sandals echoes through the temple. Iolalus dashes to the side of Herc.

"Me. Herc, choose me. You know we work well together. You trained me. Who else can match you stride for stride?"

Herc shakes his head, his face as pained as when he'd been reciting his children's names, as pale as when he'd climbed from the vault. Beyond the temple's steps, the guards are grunting the vault's lid back into place. The leaden clang makes Herc cringe his shoulders.

"No, no, Iolalus, I won't risk it. I can do this alone. I won't have anyone risk themselves for me. I don't deserve it. If you were hurt, or died—"

"No matter," Eury interrupts. "Are you volunteering?"

"Yes," Iolalus blurts before Herc can stop him. Herc drops his face into his hands, shaking his head in dismay.

"There, he has volunteered. The contract is sealed. Am I not right, Herene?"

Unfortunately, he is. If a person volunteers to aid a tribute, the gift of help can't be refused. Iolalus has locked his fate to Herc's.

"Yes," I say.

"Yes, _Excellency_ , if you don't mind. You have witnessed it and you will go off to your little enclosure and record it." To Herc and Iolalus he says, "The details of the first task will be delivered to you in the morning." He claps his hands together again. "I believe we're done here. Guards," he shouts, "come take this blood crimer back to his cell."

The guards run up, but halt at the top of the steps uncertain of stepping onto the temple floor, the realm of the gods, without being invited. Eury won't let them get away with their show of respect for long.

"No, we're not done, Excellency," I say as Eury starts to speak. He turns, shooting me a scorching glare. "You've forgotten that because tributes are under the watch of the gods, they must be quartered in the House of Hera while they complete their tasks. By law, both Herc and Iolalus must stay in the House of Hera. Certainly Your Excellency must have read that when coming up with this noble plan to save his cousin and Portaceae."

Eury clenches and unclenches his jaw as if chewing on a stringy piece of meat. He pinches his lips so tight they whiten to the color of bone. After several moments, he huffs and says, "Of course I knew that." He storms away, stopping just before he reaches the steps.

"Oh, and cousins," he says turning back to us like he's just remembered something. "Don't forget that according to the law, a volunteer faces the same punishment as the convicted if a tribute's task can't be completed."

Herc races across the vast temple, pulling up short of Eury and grabbing the front of his gold-trimmed toga.

"How dare you? How dare you allow him to volunteer?"

"Get your hands off me or you _will_ end up in that box. And since the first task will be considered a failure—" He glances past Herc to Iolalus.

The guards swarm into the temple, closing in on Herc to protect their master.

"Out," I order. "You have no business in here. Hercules Dion, you will do nothing in this temple to shame the gods."

Herc holds Eury for one moment longer, then lets him go as if flicking foul water off his hands. He shrugs the guards' hands off his arm.

"No, I won't," Herc says. The muscles of his jaw twitch with tension. "He's corrupted this place enough for one day."

## CHAPTER SIX

### _Eury_

BARUCH HOLDS THE door of the carriage open as I scuttle toward my safety zone. My nerves still jangle from Herc's attack causing me to miss the step. Baruch catches me as I stumble forward.

"Leave me," I say shoving him away. I haul myself into the plush leather seat, slam the door behind me, and whip the curtains shut. It isn't until the carriage is rolling along and my fear fizzles that it dawns on me how perfectly the morning has gone.

A grin creeps up my cheeks, morphs uncontrollably into a broad smile, then turns into a fit of laughter that rocks me so hard I worry the carriage might tip over.

Perhaps I shouldn't dismiss the gods so readily. They let that red-headed fool stumble head first into my trap. I had hoped Herc would choose our cousin, but there was no guarantee he wouldn't just try to complete the tasks alone. Iolalus volunteering is a coup so delightful I almost feel my hangover melting away. After all, I'm no idiot. I know if the vigiles have thought to put Herc in my place, it won't take long for their muscle-filled heads to rally behind Iolalus once the great Hero of Hestia dies in my service. Now, I will be rid of them both in one go and all talk of a coup will be at an end.

And there is no way I will allow them to finish every task and come out alive. Osteria has enough dangers and I have enough wit to ensure that. With Hera having already done me the favor of getting rid of Herc's sons, once my cousins are out of the way I will be Nikos's only living male heir and there will be no threat to my position left in all of Portaceae. Gods, what a beautiful morning.

A fit of laughter hits me again. The carriage dips into a rut in the road, jolting me up out of my seat and knocking my head into the ceiling. I slam my fist against the offending surface which only makes my hand throb as vigorously as my head. Slumping back in the seat, I peek out the curtain. Outside, the grumpy faces of people trudging to their morning duties fire harsh glances at me. I flick the curtain shut again.

Why do the Portaceans throw such an ungrateful attitude toward me? They act as if they expected my grandfather to reappear when I took power. A ridiculous notion if there ever was one. I've been groomed for my position since a child. I've cultured fine tastes. I refuse to live as he did, so ordinarily. He had actually chosen to live in the heart of the city rather than with Portaceae's upper crust on the Solonian Hill that perches above the mess of Portaceae City. My mother scoffed every Godsday when we had to descend from our own home on the hill into the heart of the city to pay him a visit. It was from her I learned a leader should show he was better, that he was above his people. As Solon, I have to be an example of what they should strive for.

And truly, what do they have to complain about? I don't tax them heavily. I don't rule with an iron hand. And yet they gripe. What difference does it make if roads are in poor condition when all the commoners either walk or ride horses as they go about their business? I'm the one who suffers on Portaceae's rutted and damaged roads. The very thought makes my head throb anew.

From the basket the kitchen servants have placed in the carriage, I grab an orange that has been imported at great cost from the Califf Lands because Adneta once declared them her favorite fruit in all the world. I dig my nails into the skin sending up a puff of citrus oil and filling the interior with the luxurious scent.

Do the people think the public buildings, the houses Portaceae provides for them, or the running water system can be repaired without raising taxes? It's not as if I'm the one causing the earthquakes. It's not as if I'm the one who let the farmlands go fallow. It's not I who tell tenants to abandon their farms and the wealthy to abandon Portaceae. With only a trickle of tax money coming in from rents, crops, or estates, the budget is stretched thinner than a whore's nightshirt.

Don't they see Hera is to blame for most of this? It's her neglect, her obsession with her own hatred toward Herc that has left the land barren. I can't make soil fertile; I can't force tenants to farm when robbing travelers along the Osterian Road is far more profitable; and I can't make the buildings in the city stand stable when all of Osteria seems plagued with earthquakes.

There is simply no way I can be expected to find money for what they think needs to be done when at the mere mention of increasing the tax, I face weeks of criticism. If repairs are such a concern, why don't they just rebuild these things on their own rather than wait for someone else to do it?

Unfortunately, they do have someone else in mind. They always have. In my frustration at the thought, I grip the naked orange too tightly. The juice soaks my fingers. I wipe my hands down the front of my silk robes to dry them and the beak of the Solonian chain's peacock emblem pierces a finger. The acidic juice sears into the wound and I chuck the offending fruit out the window.

Even within the first year of my Solonship, undercurrents of whispers said that Herc should rule. After all, he saved that family, why wouldn't he save the entire polis? Although the decline in Portaceae's glory had started at Herc's birth and continued for the final thirteen years of my grandfather's rule, the people had managed to find a way to maintain the polis. Once my mother took the regency, her iron rule, her insistence on keeping us in high standards brought the wrath of the people against me.

I lowered taxes to a pittance my first true year as Solon, the first year without my mother acting as regent. For what? To win their favor. The effort only backfired. I suppose I should blame my mother for diverting money from the city maintenance fund to refurbish the Solon's villa. Although I have a splendid home that anyone can come admire from the edge of the property, its construction left the city with no money to keep up the water pumps and, one by one, they fell into an irreparable state. With horrid luck, the section of the city that went out first was also the one where a stray spark turned the entire area into a bonfire. I heard no end of ridicule for that one as if I had been the idiot who hadn't tended to his coals. And when my cousin stepped in to save an entire neighborhood, well, I never regained favor in the people's eyes. I could never block out the brightness of his deed.

Until now. Now Herc has been caught in Hera's pit and I will be certain he never climbs back out.

The road changes from pitted to paved signaling we're heading up the long drive to my villa. I pull back the curtains to let in some fresh air and my eyes instantly glance to the third floor of my home. A warm light emanates from it.

_Of course she would be here. Why should I have hoped otherwise? _

Once Baruch lets me out at the courtyard, I lumber my way up the staircases. Just for once I wish she would meet me on the ground floor instead of making me go through this sacrifice of sweat to join her. By the time I get to the third floor landing, my head throbs. The knock on my head in the carriage compounds the ache I woke with from last night's revelry. The exponential pain puts me in no mood to deal with Hera's quibbles. I shove the door open and even the goddess's unearthly beauty doesn't stir me from my annoyance.

"I don't like him residing with Iole," Hera snaps before I can even greet her. I wonder if I ask, will she make my headache disappear. I doubt it. Hera rarely uses her powers to ease people's suffering. I rub my temples as I cross the room.

"It's the law. We overlooked it. People paying tribute reside in the House of Hera." I flop down in the chaise lounge ignoring her glare. "Besides, he won't be living with her, just in the guest wing."

"He should be married. That's the law too. Or have you overlooked that as well?"

"He would be married if you hadn't decided letting his wife die in childbirth would be a source of godly entertainment for you. Or was Meg just an accident? Do you only kill children?"

"How dare you speak to me like that?"

With a snap of her fingers, the chaise lounge disappears from under me. I drop to floor in a heap. I push myself up and make a show of brushing off my toga pretending nothing has happened. I'm walking on a thin line of luck and I know it. The perfection of the morning's outcome and my head's agony have put me in a brash mood.

I had to know it would only be a matter of time before Hera would bring up Portaceae's marriage law. After all, as goddess of marriage and family, it's her law that she instituted soon after she became Portaceae's patron goddess. Her reasoning was that men were more cooperative, more community-minded when married. With a straying husband such as hers, I couldn't fathom where she came up with such a notion. Still, it did work to settle many men. Not all, but most were certainly less aggressive once married. Domestication some called it.

The law states that if a man is still unwed by the time he reaches his twenty-fifth birthday and has no one in particular in mind, the polis chooses a wife for him. When a man becomes eligible, interested women put their names into a lottery. Ever resourceful when it comes to my own gain, I've found this system an excellent opportunity to accumulate a few extra drachars. Nothing is free after all and it appears women will pay dearly when a good prospect is nearing his wedding day. The woman who makes the biggest donation finds her name happens to be chosen on the wedding day. How can it not? After all, hers will be the only name written on the slips of paper in the selection box.

Herc's wife has been dead nearly eleven months. Men are allowed a period of grieving from the time of death until their next birthday comes around. So, according to Hera's law, Herc will have to marry again within the month.

"My apologies," I offer. "It's been a strange day and I was rude. But your own law states weddings take place on the man's birthday, so he'll just have to stay in the House of Hera another few weeks. Then, it will fall on my shoulders to find him a bride. Unless you have someone in mind."

As I have calculated, Hera's vanity is appeased by my deference. Her cross expression softens.

"I'll be certain to find the right woman. Now, do you have an idea for your cousins' first labor? If not, I have a suggestion."

I do have something in mind. There's been word from other poli that black market dealers from Ares's polis are willing to pay a Solon's ransom for hydra's blood—the most poisonous substance in Osteria. But if I want to keep Hera on my good side, I need to let her take her turn in this game.

"I thought you didn't want to think about it."

A wicked smile dances across her lips. "When an opportunity comes, I take it. I promise, I didn't think long on him. I never do."

For someone who doesn't think much about Herc Dion, she certainly seems to spend a great deal of effort devising ways to make his life miserable. But I hold this comment on my tongue. The rare moments when Hera is in a good mood are when she is pleased with herself. I have no desire to be the one to cause her foul mood to return.

"Then by all means, share your idea."

"The Nemean Lion."

I stare at her. She has to be kidding. Hera will kill my cousins on the very first task.

The creature that is now dubbed the Nemean Lion roamed into Osteria last year. Some say it came from the Middens, the high mountains at the far eastern edge of Osteria, but others say it came from the monstrosities in the Maisland, the barren plains beyond the Middens where all animals and humans are said to have mutated into living horrors during The Disaster. Regardless of where the lion came from, it has made its way across Osteria and has been terrorizing the people in the East Portaceaen district of Nemea for months. Its skin can't be pierced with arrows or swords and the creature has eluded all traps. The beast has proven itself impossible to kill and bent on making meals of its foes.

I can't watch my chance to use Herc slip out of my fingers.

"That thing can't be destroyed," I object. "Herc'll be back in the blood crime vault before next Godsday. Why waste him like that? I thought you wanted to torment him."

"The people in Nemea have taken up a collection, a reward somewhere in the range of five thousand drachars. Apparently the lion has developed a taste for their children and they are desperate to be rid of it. Your cousin will torture himself knowing he must destroy it to protect the rest of the Nemean children." She smiles, completely pleased with herself and the idea of Herc's suffering. "You doubt the bastard's skills too much when it comes to his need to do what's right."

Five thousand drachars. If Nemea has that amount of money it should be paid to me, not squirreled away for their own use. My mind flits to ideas of what five thousand drachars could buy for Adneta. And to how she would reward me for the gifts.

"You're certain he'll conquer it?" I ask.

"Not entirely, but he has fair odds."

I consider arguing. How can he have fair odds if the thing can't be stabbed with blades or shot with arrows? Still, I need to cement a deal with the Areans before I employ Herc against the hydra. Nemea will buy me time to haggle.

"Then he shall go. But truly, Hera, I can think of much better ways to make use of Herc. Let me choose the tasks from now on." In truth, I want to select the most profitable labors I can imagine. Hera will send him off rolling stones back and forth if she thinks it might cause him anguish. "Think of each one as a surprise. Besides, you have a wife to choose for him."

"Yes, there are certain criteria that must be met," she says as she drifts over to a far window. "I can't let him—" she trails off. "We're done here," she says dismissively.

I leave Hera to her thoughts as I hurry down to the second floor to see what Adneta might want in the five thousand drachar range. And what pre-payment she might be willing to offer.

## CHAPTER SEVEN

### _Herc_

I STILL CAN'T believe what has happened. For once, the gods have favored me and I've been given a reprieve. The moment I accepted Eury's offer, my limbs felt as if they'd been filled with air, but it had only taken Iolalus's volunteering to restore the weight of guilt upon them. I'd killed my family, my innocent children. I deserved the worst death imaginable. I'd almost had it, but now I risk my cousin's life as well as my own for my crime.

After descending the steps of the temple, I make a wide pass around the hole in the earth that I have escaped. The guards, who have begun shifting the vault cover back into place, scowl at me as I pass, but I do my best to keep my head high and not look in their direction. I worry that one false move will have them pulling me back in saying it has all been a joke.

I follow the priestess and Iolalus to their horses who stand side by side in the field beyond the temple nibbling on whatever green they can find in the withered grass. Iolalus has brought a small, nimble horse whose long legs still retain a coltish look although I know the animal is full grown. This is a horse of the vigiles, bred to cross the width and length of the polis at great speed. The Herene's horse is a sturdy creature that would look more appropriate in front of a plow than under Portaceae's head priestess. When the grey mare nods a greeting the smell of lavender overwhelms me as if the horse is stuffed with the same plants that surround the temple grounds.

"Iolalus, you'll be able to keep your horse in our stables unless you need to return him," the Herene offers.

Iolalus swings up on his horse, a broad smile brightens his face. No doubt he enjoys that a woman of her rank knows him by name. I turn away from his pleased expression feeling burning frustration behind my eyes. How can I have gotten him involved in this? If only he'd stayed away this morning. Now, it will be up to me to keep him safe, and I don't know if I can. Of late, it seems I have little ability to protect my loved ones. My throat catches and I thank the gods that I'm able to face away as I allow the priestess to use my back as a mounting block to get up on her mare.

"She can carry us both, unless you prefer to walk," she says looking down to me. The morning sun catches the glints of gold in her green eyes.

Gods, how my thoughts betray the memory of Meg. This woman before me is the most beautiful I've ever seen. Wisps of blonde hair sneak out of her braid giving her a carefree, girlish appearance. Her dress, despite its simplicity, emphasizes she is no girl, but a woman with a trim waist that gently rounds to her hips. As she settles onto the back of the horse, she shifts her garment until it hugs her thigh and hitches up to expose the lower half of a slim calf. Realizing I'm ogling the body of the head priestess of the Herenes, I avert my eyes to her foot where a single silver ring decorates one of her toes. Somehow this small detail fascinates me.

_Damn it. What kind of monster are you?_

I curse my behavior and force my eyes to the ground reminding myself that under the sod is where I should be, not here enjoying the view of a perfectly curved calf or delicately decorated toe. Perhaps the gods have been mistaken about sparing me. I have killed my children and been saved from a torturous death only to thank the gods by undressing a priestess of Hera with my mind.

_Surely the gods have chosen the wrong man to pardon_.

"I'll walk," I say and leave them behind.

The horses trot up to me with Iolalus to my right and the priestess to my left. Her horse gives off a warm jingle as hundreds of tiny bells on the bridle sing with each of the animal's steps. My eyes refuse to obey and insist on sneaking glimpses of the ring on the priestess's toe.

"You know our names," Iolalus says with his typical lack of formality, "but we only know you as High Priestess."

"Iolalus, speak respectfully to her."

"It's no matter," the priestess says. Her voice has a pleasant ring to it, as if she and the bells on her bridle are singing the same melody. Something about her nags at me, like searching for a word and being unable to come up with it. "We're not at the House yet, we can still speak informally. Although, you'll find I don't stand on ceremony unless the occasion calls for it. My name is Iole."

"Iole?" I halt and whip my glance up meeting her green eyes whose gold flecks entrance me even more than the ring on her toe. Remembering what a monster she must see me as, I quickly look away and continue my forward march. "Your name's familiar."

She gives a little laugh. Amused at my expense, no doubt. "You saved my life when I was sixteen. Mine was the family you rescued in the Hestia neighborhood. Do you not remember?"

"They do say Osteria is a small world," Iolalus says. My mind races with the memory of that night, of saving that family before the neighboring building collapsed through their roof. That event changed the people of Portaceae's view of me from bastard-born monster to hero. Perhaps they'd been wrong in their praise. "You know," Iolalus continues, "that night made me want to become a vigile. I wanted to be a hero my first night of duty, just like my cousin."

"Shut up, Iolalus," I say. "You wanted to be a vigile the day I was chosen to be one. And it wasn't my first night. Just my first night on lone patrol."

How odd it is that the priestess and I have been thrown together again. Twelve years ago I saved her life and this morning she played a part in saving mine. Surely, the gods' wheels must be in motion to bring us together.

_Stop it. She is a priestess, you are a blood crimer. You have no business thinking of fate like a schoolgirl with a crush._

"Still," the priestess says, "I'm glad you were there."

"Only a handful of vigiles were outside of the north section of the city," Iolalus says, speaking as if reciting an adventure tale around a fire. "Most had to run buckets to burning buildings since the pumps weren't working—shut down by our brilliant Solon to save money."

"Iolalus, enough," I mutter.

"No, let him continue," the priestess says. "He's a good story teller."

I chastise Iolalus with my eyes, but he smirks and looks away, continuing on as if he hasn't noticed.

"Well, who would have thought the wind would blow an ember all the way from the fires in the north of the city to the west of the city? Or that it would land on one of the most flammable buildings in the west."

"I think you're exaggerating," I say. We are within sight of the city walls now and I hope the priestess will call an end to Iolalus's gabbing. Certainly it can't fit with her status to be seen swapping tales with tributes.

"It makes for a better story," my cousin insists. "Now, it was by the luck of the gods that Herc, a novice vigile of eighteen, was on his first lone patrol and was passing the very building at just the moment it caught fire—"

"I was down the block," I correct. "I ran when I saw the flames."

Iolalus ignores me. "And it was lucky he did, because right next door to the building was a family with mere moments to spare and he rescued them." He continues in a less dramatic voice, "My first lone patrol I only managed to help a woman find her cat."

"That's still heroic," the priestess says in a voice that reminds me of how I would congratulate the twins on a drawing they'd made for me in school. Even if I'd had no idea what the image was or how badly it was rendered, I praised them. By being convicted of blood crime, I have lost all rights to my home. Now that it will be given to another vigile and his family, I wonder what will become of those drawings.

"Do you want another story of Herc? We've still got a ways before we're to the House."

"Perhaps I should ride so we can move a bit faster and annoy the priestess a bit less with your chatter," I say.

"You can ride," Iole says, "but I'd still love to hear another story."

I hate that I want to think her interest in me is more than just a way to pass the time. I hate that I hope she cares for me. Meg hasn't even been gone from me a year. She deserves more devotion than eleven mere months of grief. I shouldn't be able to so quickly abandon my love for her. And I had loved her. Although we only married to fulfill my mother's dying wish, we had been happy.

So many men detest the marriage law and even flee to other poli to escape the folly it has become. Most of Portaceae knows the system under Eury is rigged. It's hard to miss that the richest women get the choicest bachelors. But once married most men find the comfort of a home, the responsibility of a family, the companionship of a wife makes them happy. That's the whole point of Hera's law really—to create cohesion and a sense of belonging.

Not all goes smoothly, nothing ever does. Some men and some women just don't mesh or the men treat their wives poorly, even cruelly. In these cases, women can seek divorce. Upon the man's next birthday he will be remarried, but the most desirable women rarely enter the lottery for a divorced man. And the more divorces a man has under his tunic, the less he is sought after. Some men have been divorced so many times, the only wives that can be found for them are those too bossy, too lazy, or too drunk to make any man happy.

But I had been happy once. I lost Meg and have now destroyed the children she left me. I have no right to think the priestess feels anything for me but pity. Or scorn.

Iole stops and I swing up onto the horse to sit behind her. I instantly regret accepting the offer. She smells of fresh soap and it takes every bit of my will to resist wrapping my arms around her. I have no right to touch any woman, let alone a Herene. I should be breaking my fingernails on the inside lid of the blood crime vault, not dreaming up fantasies of her leaning back on my chest as we ride toward the city. I kick the idea from my mind and use my legs to balance as she clicks the horse back into a walk.

"Now, your story, Iolalus," Iole says.

"Did you know that even as a baby Herc was a hero?"

I groan.

"Let him speak," Iole says, glancing back at me with a teasing grin. Gods forgive me for wanting to touch my lips to hers.

"Sadly," Iolalus continues, "he was only trying to save his own skin this time, not that of a beautiful woman."

"Iolalus! Have respect. She was a girl at the time of her rescue."

"Who says I was talking about Iole? Priestess, apparently my blushing cousin finds you beautiful."

My cheeks burn and, if he was close enough I would knock Iolalus from his horse. I want him to stop now. There is no reason to go on with this story telling. We pass through the city gates and I can see the top of the House of Hera. Surely the priestess has to call a stop to this silliness, to force me to dismount, and march me through the streets as I deserve.

The people of the city stop their morning chores of sweeping steps, hauling laundry down to the river, and setting up vendor carts to stare at us. As soon as we pass each group, a hiss of whispers erupts behind us. Although I want nothing more than to tumble off the Herene's mare, Iolalus ignores the gawkers' glances and scolds me.

"That should teach you to interrupt. Now, as I was saying, there was Herc who even as a little guy was a big boy. Alcmena, another beauty, left him in his crib for a nap. While in the middle of preparing a speech for our grandfather, she heard a giggle from across the room where Herc's crib stood. As you can imagine, my cousin didn't giggle much even as a babe, so Alcmena went over to see what had stirred him. Well, there was Herc, sitting up in his crib, a bright gummy smile for his mom."

"What made him giggle?" Iole asks. She's gotten so entranced by the story, she lets her reins drop. I grab them to keep the horse from walking into the cart of an herb vendor. People point at the sight of a Herene in a man's arms. Iolalus, ignoring their stares goes on.

"In each hand," he drops his own reins, but with most of our childhood spent on horseback under our grandfather's training, Iolalus can guide even the most spirited of horses with only his legs. He raises his hands and balls them into fists. "Herc clutched a snake. Gripping them so tightly," he shakes both fists as if grappling with a pair of snakes himself, "they died in his hands." He picks up his reins again. "Apparently he liked the rattle at the ends of their tails and was giggling every time he shook them."

This story, once one of my mother's favorites, now turns my stomach. Those same hands that strangled the snakes have done very the same thing to Cassie. I suddenly want back in the vault, I do not deserve life. There is nothing, not enough tasks in the world to atone for what I've done.

"But you," Iole twists to look at me. Gods be damned I don't want her eyes on me, or her lips so close to mine. "You grew up in Portaceae."

"Yes." I lock my eyes forward. The House of Hera is straight ahead and I focus on that, not the Herene.

"But there are no rattlesnakes in Portaceae. Do you think the gods placed them there?"

"I don't know. I was only a baby. What could I have done to anger the gods?"

Iole turns back around in silence.

Thankfully we are at the House of Hera and story time is over. The building is immense, the largest in all of Portaceae. It isn't simply one building, but a complex of structures all housed behind a protective wall whose only opening is the Peacock Gate, a massive iron gate embellished with metal work in the design of a peacock's tail.

The House was built not long after Osteria had formed into her twelve poli, generations before my grandfather led Portaceae. Even then, Portaceae already outshone the other city-states and had attracted artists and builders who set to work building the home for Hera's priestesses, the Herenes, who would become the most revered women in Osteria.

Thanks to the skill of the builders and the dedicated work of the Herenes, the complex has withstood the neglect Hera has shown Portaceae, the recent earthquakes, and the financial downfall that came with Eury's reign.

Although Portaceae's true decline began in the last thirteen years of my grandfather's rule, he made his own sacrifices and tightened the budget to ensure the strength of the polis. Even if Portaceae wasn't flourishing, it was stable and healthy. But when Eury's mother became regent, her spending knew no bounds, her management centered on personal gain, and her son learned how to be a leader at the hem of her skirts. By the time Eury took full power as Solon, the polis and its infrastructure were in tatters.

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.

## CHAPTER EIGHT

### _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. The 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."

I smile at my own cleverness, but the Herene's scowl deepens enough to form a furrow between her eyes.

"Let everyone watch," she says. "Since you won't give them safe conditions, good jobs, or food, at least give your people some entertainment."

I have to admit, I like this idea. A show at the arena will be just like the games we once presented. Games always get people into the arena and, once in the stands and watching a riveting show, they spend their drachars to satiate their hunger and thirst. Since thirty percent of the arena vendors' take goes straight into my coffers—

"A brilliant idea, Priestess. I'm sure we can dig up some engineers who can get the arena screen working."

"That's another thing, Excellency." How skillful she is at making my title sound like filth she needs to scrape off her shoe. "You need to hire engineers to shore up some of these buildings. If another earthquake hits, the hospital will be overwhelmed with injuries. We can barely handle the ones coming in from—"

"My dear, we should cover this when we go over the budget next. You wouldn't want these men to fail because you're worried about a few bumps and bruises."

She opens her mouth as if to argue, but then shoots a fretful look to Herc. He meets her eyes briefly before becoming interested in a pebble in his sandal, but the glance is enough to make her face soften.

_Dear gods, could the Herene be lusting for my cousin?_

"No, of course not," she mutters.

"Then let us wish my cousins good luck."

Iole gives Iolalus a brief hug before he swings up onto his horse. When she approaches Herc, he sticks out his hand before she can embrace him. She grabs it in both of hers and holds it a few moments before letting go and walking away. The curve of her ass dances under her linen gown and I wonder again how much she could be auctioned off for. From the height of a massive dappled mare, Herc clears his throat to take my attention off the Herene's parting view. I smile at his scowl. "The gods do bless us, don't they?" I say before strolling back to my carriage.

## CHAPTER NINE

### _Stavros_

"WE FOUND WORK for you, thief," the guard says as he clangs open my cell door.

I move off the bunk, my back protesting the change in position. "The accommodations here could use some updating," I say. I twist right to left trying to ease the tension that has crept up on me after another night on the book-thin mattress, but my back refuses to relax.

The guard ignores my review and leads me to a horse-drawn cart. Both the cart and the horse look as if they might crumble apart on the wretched roads of this city, but, by the thin threads of the gods' robes, I'm delivered safely to a monstrous arena.

We have our own amphitheaters in Athenos, but nothing of this scale. I remember seeing this gargantuan when I visited Portaceae as a child, but when you barely reach your mother's hip, everything looks huge. Before my trial I'd only caught glimpses of the arena from my daughter's area of town, but even from half a mile away, the thing dwarfed any building I'd seen before. And during my trial, I'd been too irritated with myself for getting caught stealing a stale hunk of bread to pay much notice to the impressive building.

Now, as the cart makes its way around to the rear of the structure, I size up the three tiers of arches that comprise the outside walls and make a rough guess that it can hold at least five thousand people.

"He's yours now," the guard says to the lanky, bow-legged man—barely twenty years old by the look of him—who greets us. The guard shoves me hard enough to twist my torso. My spine calls out in a series of pops that sends the cramps fleeing from my back. Relieved of my aches for the first time in days, I slide out of the cart to stand by my new boss. "Make sure he puts in a full day. If he don't work, trip a call box and the vigiles'll bring him back to our fine establishment." The guard throws me a snide look that tells me my next stay will make the first seem like the finest Portaceae had to offer.

"Thank you, I'm sure he'll be fine." The cart clatters away and the boy sticks out his hand. "I'm Orpheus Keros. I hear you're an engineer."

I shake his hand and introduce myself.

"I was, but I haven't done any work for several months."

"You're from Athenos, though? Gods, I can't imagine it. Mother wants me to become a musician – natural talent, she says. But much to her disappointment I'm fascinated by engineering. I'd love a chance to apprentice in Athenos someday. I hear they have electricity throughout the polis."

"Most of the polis has electricity as do a few other poli. I helped wire them myself." And gods, how we had fought like mad to keep the Osterian Council from taking control of the distribution of power. The Council's only reason for doing so was to have another way to keep their thumbs on the poli and to weasel money out of something Athenos and other poli had been producing and sharing for free.

"Then I guess you're qualified for this," Orpheus says cheerfully as he holds open a door and gestures for me to go through. When he closes the door behind us, the only light comes from the end of the tunnel we're in. Orpheus eases by me. "Follow me." He leads me down a side hall off the tunnel, right, and then left until we come to a set of stairs. We climb until I think we must be going to the top of Mount Olympus herself. Orpheus, showing no sign of exertion, explains our project as we go.

"We've got to rig up the feed screen in the arena for a public viewing. I guess like a game, but the players won't be on the floor of the arena. Gods, they won't even be _in_ the arena. Seems strange to me, but I'm curious."

"You've never seen something televised?" I ask through heavy breaths.

"Not that I remember. And that's the problem. This stuff hasn't been used for years. Engineers don't get much experience with electricity because His Excellency keeps all the juice for himself. With the levy the Osterian Council charges for electricity, it's too expensive to maintain power across the entire polis these days. We used to have it, so the lines and whatever else are there, but few people know how to do repairs on it."

"How does the Solon maintain his own equipment then?"

"When he's got a problem, he hires it out to someone from another polis, Athenos usually. You guys know your stuff. But it leaves me without a clue of how to do any of this and I'm hoping you do. You're only needed for today, which is tough luck for you since you won't get to stay in the House of Hera. I hear they serve the best meals and they have running water. Can you imagine?" I can, most of Athenos has had interior plumbing for decades. "Still, if you're willing, I'd want to keep you on after today. Show me a thing or two," he says hopefully.

We stop on a landing and Orpheus opens a door to a small room of which one wall is all window. A panel filled with buttons and knobs runs along the inside of half the window and other electrical equipment scatters the room. On the floor rests a tangled snake of cables. Many of the cables are frayed and the outer housing is missing, exposing the inner silver and copper wiring.

A groan rumbles from my throat. I can't fault Orpheus for his enthusiasm, but this is a waste. This polis is a joke, or at least its Solon is. It took decades of digging and excavating to find the wiring, grid systems, solar panels, and other equipment to bring electricity to Athenos. We cleaned the Pre-Disaster equipment, repaired it and connected it to old stoves, grinding wheels, and even a handful of vehicles that ran on electricity. Eventually we learned to build our own panels. When other poli had seen what we'd achieved, they hired me and my crew to do the same for them. Just as I had as a child with my parents, I was travelling Osteria again.

Still, the areas that we wired have always used power to benefit the polis. Even though the Osterian Council has taken central control of the electrical system, sends patrols to check for homemade panels—"off-grid" as they call them—and collects hefty fees for distribution of electricity, it's never something only one man could possess. Here, the Solon has stolen power for himself and refused it to anyone else. Even worse, he's let the system go to ruin just to satisfy his own show of status.

But moaning over the situation won't get this job done and I've no desire to revisit that cell tonight.

"Mice have been in here. These need to be spliced before we do anything."

"Spliced?"

_Oh dear Athena, this is going to be work._

"You cut the bad part out and join the good parts."

I go on explaining and helping as we clean up the wiring. It takes most of the morning, before I deem the wires safe. Looking over the control panel, I find an outlet that reads _Incoming Feed_. I match the cable jack to the outlet and then check the sound cables.

"Now, we just have to hope the mice haven't developed a taste for the wiring in the walls. Take that cable with the prongs at the end and find an outlet that matches it. It should be on the wall nearby."

"Got it," Orpheus says with an eagerness that makes me wonder if I was ever so young.

From the control room I have a direct view of the arena's giant screen. We have smaller versions in Athenos where films made before The Disaster have been recovered and are shown on festival days. The screen here has scratches on the front, nests of birds along the supports, and droppings piled below it. How have they let this get into such disrepair?

I flip the control switch. Nothing happens.

"Damn the gods," I mutter. I flick the switch a few more times. No luck. "Let's recheck the cables."

We run our fingers along the length of the cables but all are intact and hooked up as they should be.

"It's no use," Orpheus says. "I think the problem is we don't have enough power. His Excellency probably shut down the grid to all other outlets."

"Then someone go tell him to turn it back on." Orpheus looks down and pretends to fiddle with another wire. "Fine, I get it," I concede. "Just show me where the fool lives and I'll tell him myself."

Orpheus breathes a sigh a relief and we head back down the stairs. We walk our way through the city and up a hill to possibly the largest estate I've ever seen. The villa itself could house a small arena.

"And yet your buildings are falling apart?" I say shaking my head and thinking of my daughter's husband. "Where to?"

"Follow this road, I would guess."

We take the winding road that leads not to a front door, but to a courtyard. Looking further up the path, I can see a row of stables in front of which a stable hand is polishing an ornate carriage. We turn into the courtyard and are halted by the sight of a tall man with a regal build engaged in a consuming kiss with a dark-haired woman. His hand cups her breast that has been slipped from her dress. From my trial, I know this is not the Solon. I clear my throat and the lovers jump apart from one another. The woman whisks her breast into the bodice and dashes away while the man pulls himself tall and gives us a bored look, completely wiping away any semblance that he's just been joined to a woman's mouth.

"May I help you?"

"The Solon needs to switch the electricity or the feed won't work."

He may have no idea what the words mean, but his dignified expression refuses to be blemished by a show of confusion.

"I'll let him know." He turns to leave, but before he can take a single step, a familiar man with a crooked nose perched on a long face peers out from a doorway.

"Baruch, have you seen Adneta? I've looked everywhere for her."

"No, Excellency. These men are here with a request." He moves aside and the Solon steps out into the courtyard.

"Well, what is it?"

"Your Excellency," I say as Orpheus shrinks back. "The arena doesn't have enough power to show the feed."

The Solon looks to me, to the tall man who is ignoring him, and then back to me.

"Then don't show it to them."

"But darling." The raven-haired woman slinks out from one of the breezeways and drapes herself onto the Solon. "You said we could watch the show there. It's been ages since you took me to a show." She pouts her lips while giving him a scolding look. "Are you embarrassed of me?"

"Of course not, my dear," he coos and runs his hand over the curve of her hip. "Baruch, show them the electrical system and be certain the royal box is ready in the arena so I can show off my beautiful wife."

As if we aren't watching, the Solon delves into an even deeper embrace with the Solonia than Baruch had been in. She gives out little moans to his groping, but fixes her gaze on the servant's scowling dark eyes. He turns away from the couple, unable to hide his scorn.

"Come," he commands. "It's this way."

The electrical grid that has been set up for the Solon is a simple system. It's only a matter of rearranging a few wires and flipping some switches to divert power from the villa to the city. It's a weak system powered by only a few solar panels on the villa's roof and won't supply power to much more than the screen, but it will serve its purpose.

I thank the servant who gives only a bored nod in return. Orpheus and I hurry back to the arena. As we near the behemoth structure, bells clang and people fill the streets slowing our progress.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"The bells, they tell people when there's an unscheduled event at the arena. Probably our little show."

"Then let's hope the switch worked. We still don't know if that screen is even functioning or if the signal from the camera is strong enough for us to receive it."

Orpheus gives me a questioning look. He has no idea what I'm talking about. He would have learned some rudimentary electrical principles during his training, but it's apparent he hasn't worked with any complex electrical system in his life. I reproach myself for not acknowledging his earlier request for an apprenticeship and swear once I return to Athenos I will send him a travel permit to train under my guidance. During my stay in Portaceae I'll make a point to teach him what I can, but for today the finer points will have to wait, we just need to get the feed up and running.

From the control room, I see people cramming the seats of the arena. I guessed wrong earlier. The place must hold at least ten thousand and it seems every seat will be filled.

"That's a lot of people for an unscheduled event," I say as I check the wiring.

"It's usually trials. People love those."

"I remember. It felt like all of Osteria was watching mine. Now, plug us in."

Orpheus inserts the plug into the outlet. Nothing happens.

"Shit. Try again, the other outlet."

The screen remains blank.

"Wait," Orpheus says. "See if there's a switch on the side of control panel."

I run my fingers along the right edge of the control panel and feel it: a toggle switch. I flip the switch and the screen flickers into life showing a blurry image of a peacock. Orpheus gives a whoop of excitement.

"And I thought I'd be the one teaching you," I say.

"But there's no show." Disappointment tinges his voice.

"Give it a moment. Once it finds the feed we'll get action and sound."

I scan the crowd, then look across from the screen to a pair of box seats. The Solon and his wife sit in one. The servant stands behind them with his eyes fixed on the Solonia. In the neighboring box sits a young woman with hair so blonde it shines like mercury. Her pure white gown seems dull in comparison. Four other women dressed in plainer garb sit with her.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"Gorgeous, isn't she? Another thing you'll miss by not staying at the House of Hera. That's the high priestess of the Herenes. She and the other priestesses sit equal to His Excellency."

"I have a feeling he doesn't appreciate that."

"Rumor has it he had his servant trim down the legs of their chairs so the Herenes have to sit lower than the Solon."

I shake my head at such a foolish and vain man who, once my attention has been drawn to it, does sit slightly higher than the women in the box next to him.

A whine of feedback pierces the arena and the screen lights up with two men on horseback. I lean forward, nearly tipping out the window in my surprise. Orpheus pulls me back.

"It's him," I say pointing to the screen. "I thought he was dead."

"Herc Dion? No, he was released. Paying tribute just like you. My mother nearly tore her hair out when she heard. She witnessed against him. Me, I can't believe he did what he was accused of, despite what Mother says she saw. Few people can."

"Turn the volume knob, their mouths are moving but there's no sound."

Orpheus takes a moment trying to find the knob and then does as I tell him.

"Where do you suppose the bastard is?" a red-haired man asks.

"That's Iolalus, Herc's younger cousin," Orpheus says.

A low-rumbling like thunder comes across the sound system.

"I don't think we'll need to look for long," Herc says. Both he and his cousin dismount and pick up hand-sized rocks from the ground. In the background are hills and a lush forest of green, but the men appear to be standing in a low field. Herc looks to the camera. "Take the horses and wait over there," he says irritably.

"But I'm supposed to be filming."

"Then film from further away," Iolalus chides.

The laughter that flickers through the crowd changes to a collective gasp as the camera jerks over to frame a huge lion sauntering toward the group on the screen. The animal's dark mane stands out against its white shoulders. With every silent, stalking step, the animal's muscles ripple.

"What's a lion doing in Portaceae?" I ask.

Orpheus answers as we watch Herc size up the cat. The field of view gets broader and broader as the cameraman steps his way back from the beast.

"They call him the Nemean Lion. He's been eating his way west over the past year. No one's sure if he came from the Middens or further east, but most assume he's an extremely well-adapted descendent from the lions Pre-Disaster people kept in caged enclosures in parks. What were they called?"

I think a moment, the word dangling just out of reach. Then, like a flash of lightning, the word bursts into my head: "Zoos." I'd learned about these parks in my youth when I'd been fascinated with Pre-Disaster culture. Wanting to rebuild the things we knew about from that ancient world had inspired me to become an engineer.

The lion roars and the sound sends a jolt of visceral fear through my gut. Instincts tell me to run even though I know I'm far out of the beast's reach. The camera picks up the sound of trickling water and then the screen is filled with a close up of a yellow puddle on the ground between the cameraman's long feet. The scene jerks back up as the man behind the camera mutters his apologies.

The lion paces, but still keeps its distance from Herc who, without taking his eyes off the beast, is signaling for his cousin to stay back. The red-haired youth falls back a few paces.

"Zoos, that's it," Orpheus says. "We've had lions in Portaceae before, all Osteria has, hasn't she? But they usually stick to livestock and game. This one, look at him, he's the size of four lions put together, and he's taken a liking to human flesh. Particularly kids."

I've heard stories of a rogue lion, but thought they were just tales to scare children.

"So, why not just kill it. A thing that size can't be hard to hit."

Just then Herc throws a rock, aiming it at the lion's head and hitting it dead center. The rock bounces off doing no more damage than a pebble hitting a boulder.

"Can't be done," Orpheus says. "Its skin can't be pierced or cut, its claws could shave you down to your cheekbones in one swipe, and its bones are said to be unbreakable."

"So how's he supposed to kill it?" I look more closely at the screen. "He doesn't even have any weapons."

Then, like the patient hunter he is, the lion lies down facing Herc. Herc stands his ground watching the animal, never taking his eyes off of it. The camera droops now and then during the standoff. The cameraman's shoulders will be tiring and he must be switching his machine between them. In the stands, vendors begin making their way through with drinks and packets of nuts, dried fruits, and bread. The audience eats and drinks and watches. Some get bored, while others may have chores or jobs to get to. Regardless of the reason, they trickle out as the sun moves over the arena. As soon as they leave, more people file in to take their places. All the while, Herc and the lion watch one another, waiting for some moment only they're aware of.

"Herc, we need to do something," Iolalus says. I'm impressed by the sound range of the camera and remind myself to look it over if the cameraman returns. "The sun's already well past midday."

"I'm quite aware of that. Why don't you address your complaint to our other cousin who seems to have miscalculated how long it would take to get here? One hour, Eury? Try three," he says over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the lion. "Now, get back."

Iolalus takes two steps back. The lion's tail whips back and forth. Its muscles flex under creamy white fur. I've seen the same motions when my daughter's cat is preparing to strike an inattentive bird.

"Move, man, that thing's ready to pounce," I urge.

With a burst of energy, the lion bolts. The cameraman screeches, swinging wide to the sky, then the ground before balancing back to the scene. The lion has turned and is running. Herc chases after it. The scene jogs up and down before the cameraman centers Herc and the lion in his view. Iolalus races after his cousin trailing only a couple paces behind.

The lion darts into what appears to be a rock wall covered in vines, but the plants either cover a hidden opening in the rock face or the lion truly is magical because the animal disappears from view. Herc stands to the side of where the creature has entered and yanks the vines away allowing a clearer view of a cave. The cameraman zooms in as the lion turns around so its head faces the entrance. The beast lets out another of its gut-clenching roars.

"Herc," Iolalus urges, "the sun is getting low."

I look to the western edge of the arena to see the sun is now touching the arena's wall.

"Well, I can't push it back up, can I?" Herc replies. He's positioned himself several paces back from the front of the cave. "Now, get behind that rock there and wait."

Iolalus does as he is told, then asks, "Any plans you want to share? Ideas how to get out of this, perhaps?"

"My plan is to die on my own terms."

Herc lunges to the front of the cave. The audience shrieks as the lion explodes out of the cavern, its teeth and claws shine red in the low summer sun. As the animal charges toward him, Herc crouches but keeps his arms and hands up as if ready to catch a ball. The lion lands on him, knocking him onto his back and covering him in fur and claws.

"He can't get out of that," Orpheus says. "There's no way."

I watch, torn between giving into the obvious blood bath that is about to come and maintaining my hope that my former cell mate will somehow prevail.

"No, see." I point. Herc's large hands slip up the lion's dark mane. He pushes the animal up, his face contorting with strain and his body twitching with the effort of staying crouched as the lion pushes against him trying to force him back down. The lion snaps its jaw trying to get Herc's head, but Herc ducks and tilts staying a finger's width from death with every attempted bite. All the while, Herc's hands clench the lion's throat.

The creature's movements slow, but not its wits. It grabs Herc with paws as large as a cow's head and claws as long as a man's finger. The lion sinks the curved weapons into his opponent's back. Herc howls in pain, but doesn't ease his chokehold. With a roar as impressive as the lion's, Herc springs from his crouched position and flips the beast onto its back. The claws rip out of Herc's back taking several large chunks of flesh with them.

Through every movement, every gash, Herc never releases his hands from the animal's throat. The lion fights the upheaval earning Herc more slashes, but after a few weak swipes, the beast can't raise its paws. The end is near. The lion twitches and opens its mouth as if to roar, but no sound comes out. A few moments later the beast's head lolls to one side; its purple tongue protrudes from its mouth.

A mix of elation and sadness sweeps over me. The audience becomes a lion itself with roars of applause and cheers of "Herc! Herc! Herc!"

In the Solon's box, I see the Solonia straddling the Solon, showering him with kisses, but he brushes her aside and storms out. The woman drags a hand along the servant's abdomen as she follows after her husband. In the Herene's box, the white-haired priestess jumps and cheers. Her accompanying ladies shift about awkwardly as if unsure what to do in the face of this unrestrained behavior.

"I don't suppose you have a knife?" Herc calls to the cameraman. The camera shakes back and forth twice.

Herc drags a finger along one of the blood-coated claws. He jerks his hand back and another rivulet of blood drizzles from a slice on his finger. Using a careful, but tight grip he rips one of the claws out of the lion's paw.

"What are you doing?" Iolalus asks.

Herc ignores him and begins slicing the skin as a hunter would to save a pelt. The claw slits the skin smoother than the sharpest Helenian blade paring a peach.

As if realizing what his cousin is doing, Iolalus insists, "We don't have time."

"We will if you help," Herc says with a catch in his voice.

Herc continues making his cuts along the hind legs. Iolalus shakes his head and pulls an expression of disbelief, but yanks out a claw and sets to work on the front. Within moments the lion is bare from head to tail.

All the while, the audience cheers, "Herc! Herc! Herc!"

## CHAPTER TEN

### _Herc_

"WHAT WILL YOU do with the pelt?" Iolalus asks as we ride to back to the village of Nemea.

I don't truly know what I'll do with it. I'd only taken the time to skin the lion to hide my face from the camera. When the beast had been upon me, I'd only thought of surviving, of killing it, of protecting the people of Portaceae. Once I witnessed the lion's head lying limp and lifeless, all thoughts had turned to Cassie. I must have strangled her just the same—hands on throat, squeezing the breath from her. But with her I had no reason to kill, no district to protect. The idea sent every muscle in my body trembling and my jaw quavering with approaching tears.

With the damned cameraman training his machine on me I couldn't give vent to my emotion. Removing the skin provided a distraction and gave me time to compose myself. As I ran the claw between the creature's skin and muscle, I relished the pain in my back, the feeling of my blood dripping down. Had the lion ripped my gut open, it would not have been enough to make up for what I've done to my children. Throughout the chore, my hand kept drifting to touch the charm that was no longer around my neck.

"Here, take it back," Iolalus had offered as he began lifting the leather necklace over his head.

With hands bloodied from our work, I gripped his wrist. "No, it's yours now. Besides, a piece of metal won't still my mind."

"If you ever want it—"

"I won't," I interrupted and continued peeling the lion's skin away from its body.

Once it was off the lion's carcass, Iolalus and I rolled up the pelt. The horses had skittered away from the smell of the predator as I tried to shove the skin into a saddlebag, but the hide was too large to fit. Instead, I tied it to the back of my horse's saddle like a blanket.

* * *

When we pass through the main village of the Nemea District, the people gather in the streets cheering and hailing us. We came through this way when we first arrived to get information on the location of the lion to little avail and much wasting of time. The village is indeed less than an hour's ride from Portaceae, but the people had given conflicting stories of where the lion had last been sighted. The district's vigiles couldn't corroborate which tale, which location was the right one, but their ignorance didn't stop them from giving their own opinions on the matter.

We ended up wasting two hours searching for signs of the beast. With our late start and the time it took to stalk the lion, the sun is now only a hand's breadth away from the horizon. Although the Nemean people have casks of wine at the ready, we don't have time to spare on festivities much to Iolalus's disappointment.

At the edge of the village, Nemea's governor, an elderly man with a beard down to his belly, waits in the street signaling us to stop. He'd been the only one who was right about the location of the lion. If I'd taken the governor's advice rather than that of a distraught father whose son was the most recent victim of the beast, I would now have time to speak with the old man.

"From all of Nemea," he says in a slow, hoarse voice. "We thank you. You have saved us."

The crowd cheers again. I shift on the horse, my eyes unable to stop looking toward the setting sun.

"He was a noble beast. A worthy foe." I want to ride around the governor, but people are now closing in to hear our words. The horse I've borrowed from the Herenes senses my urgency and paws at the ground.

"Not so noble in his tastes." The governor gestures to the crowd. "Each one of these people lost a loved one to him."

I scan the crowd. Tears of relief wash some of their faces, vengeful joy crosses others. And the sun continues to dip lower as if the hand of Zeus is pushing it down faster than normal.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Your fee," the governor interrupts. He tries to hand me a large satchel of coins, but it's too heavy for him to lift. I reach down to take it.

"Not my fee," I say so all the people can hear. "This money is for all of Portaceae."

"Herc," Iolalus whispers, "we must go if we're going to make it back by nightfall."

"I promise you will all see some good come from this, but only if I make it back to Portaceae City before her gates close. There, your donation will go into the treasury."

Either my words or the urgent tone behind them catches the old man's attention. He begins shooing people aside, clearing a path for us to get the horses through. People brush our legs and touch the lion's pelt as we pass. Once through, we set the horses to a gallop.

Iolalus is worse than an overexcited puppy as we ride back to Portaceae City. Despite our hurry to outpace the setting sun, he gives his take on my actions, which include a reenactment from horseback of what I've done and is followed by more questions of what I will do with the pelt.

After I don't respond, Iolalus suggests, "We could sell it." The landscape is still lit by the low summer sun. We can now see the crenellations of Portaceae City's walls and allow the horses to slow their pace. "It has to be worth something. Probably more than what's in that bag from Nemea's governor."

"I'll give the skin to the House of Hera. It'll need to be cured. Then they can sell it to pay for the cost of our lodging."

"You should keep it as a cloak. Nothing could pierce you. You'd be invincible," Altair, our cameraman, says.

"There's other ways to die than being stabbed or shot with an arrow in battle," I say in a tone that indicates I want to hold no conversation with him. My words however, bring to mind thoughts of the blood crime vault. A shiver passes over me despite the warmth of the evening.

"I don't work for the Solon," the cameraman says defensively.

"Then, why did you meet us this morning at his bidding?" Iolalus accuses.

"I have a family. A wife, three children, one barely a year old. Believe me, as their only provider, I have no desire to risk my life by traipsing after monstrous creatures. But the Solon threatened me. With those hulking guards of his bearing down on me, he said if I disobeyed, it would be considered treason. I figure there might be a high chance of dying by filming you two, but a one hundred percent chance of death if I don't follow his orders. I have no love of the man, nor do I serve him willingly." After a pause, he adds, "There are others more deserving of the Solonship," with his eyes fixed on me. I stay silent unable to find words to make up for my rudeness toward him and unwilling to acknowledge his treasonous comment.

After several moments, Iolalus breaks the silence. "You both are much too serious." He then recounts the day over again, this time embellishing how many times I'd been cut by the lion's claws without flinching.

As we approach the gates, the tender is already swinging them closed.

"Hold!" I shout. "Hold!"

A man steps out from behind the wench mechanism, squinting his eyes to see us better.

"We're on Solon's business," Iolalus calls out. "Hold the gate."

We urge our horses forward and then ease them through the space between the gate and the wall. It's just wide enough to allow us through.

"Another heartbeat and you'd be sleeping outside the gates," the gatekeeper says.

"Another heartbeat and we'd be counting down the last of our heartbeats," Iolalus says with more humor than I could have dared to muster at such a moment. We truly had been only a heartbeat from death. By Eury's rules, if we hadn't made it through the gates we would have failed the task. My hands tense on the reins as we make our way through the city streets, which, in the evening dusk, are lit only by the flickering candles in people's windows.

"What are we supposed to do with the money?" Iolalus asks.

"Take it directly to Eury. The order was to bring him the reward. I won't be sent under and neither will you for missing some minor technicality."

"I'm not going up there," Altair protests. "Something about that place doesn't sit well with me." He holds out his bony hand. "You were brilliant today. Just amazing."

I shake his hand, but shrug off the praise that does nothing but send the acrid taste of self-loathing to my tongue. I've strangled the life out of another living creature. I've done what I was told to do. Nothing else.

Altair rides away whistling a tune that sounds like a robin's call. Iolalus and I turn to head up the road that will take us to the Solon's villa.

I've only been to Eury's home on a few occasions back when our mothers insisted we get together for feast days. It had always been bright with lights from one end of the massive house to the other, even into the courtyards and gardens. Now, as I approach the house's vast veranda, darkness shrouds the property. Without lights, the oversized villa seems like a sleeping monster that will attack if we dare wake it.

I knock on the front door while Iolalus holds the horses that have resumed their earlier skittishness. Eury's tall servant answers carrying a candle in one hand.

"Yes?"

"I'm here to see Eury."

"He would rather not see you. I'm to collect the reward from the Nemeans."

I hesitate, but I don't want to be up here any longer than necessary. My back throbs from the lion's cuts breaking open on our ride and I'm desperate to cleanse them. I hand the satchel over and wince at the burn of another wound pulling apart. Without a word, the servant shuts the door.

Once to the bottom of the hill, I breathe easier. The first task is done. It has given me no feeling of atonement for killing my children, but I have succeeded in keeping Iolalus safe and that in itself is satisfying. I only hope I can continue to protect him throughout the next nine trials.

A few people roam the streets enjoying the night air. As we pass, they cheer us and some of the children make snarling roars and pretend to claw at the horses.

"I think you've earned a few fans," Iolalus observes as we enter the Peacock Gate. The courtyard is lit by warm light cast from torches set in sconces along the walls. A figure in white strides down the yard's central path. "And here's another."

"Shut up, Iolalus."

We dismount our horses. Iolalus unties the pelt as Iole approaches us. Her face glows in the dancing light of the flames.

"Herc, Iolalus, come we've kept dinner for you. And your things have arrived—they're in your rooms."

"I'd like to bathe first, if you don't mind. And we have this." I gesture to the pelt.

"The pelt. I wondered about it." She rubs her hand over the lion skin that hangs over Iolalus's arm. A stab of jealousy pierces my gut. "The whole city was chanting your name," she says looking up at me. The flame of one of the courtyard's torches glints off the gold flecks in her eyes and I can't help but marvel at how they sparkle.

"Eury couldn't have liked that," Iolalus says. Iole shifts her gaze to him breaking the spell and bringing me back to myself.

"No, after the show he ranted to the engineers that the feed was to go only to his house and to switch his electricity back on. Turns out, the electrical lines to Eury's villa shorted out during the initial switch. I don't quite understand it all, but from now on the feed can only go to the arena. Eury is left in the dark." Her voice carries a hint of humor at this notion.

"The pelt is a gift for the Herenes. Should we put it back here?" I ask turning to the work area behind the main complex.

Iole lets out a horrified gasp. I jerk around ready to fend off whatever has startled her.

"Your back!" She rushes to me, but I step away from her touch. Her hand lingers in the air a moment before she drops it to her side. Her face shows a mixture of concern and disappointment. "You've got blood seeping through your tunic. Didn't you have it tended to?"

"There wasn't time. I'll wash the wounds in the bath."

"No, you're going straight to the medics." Before I can avoid it, she grabs my arm and pulls me toward the hospital wing. I glance back to see Iolalus grinning at me.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

### _Iolalus_

THE HAMMER POUNDS nail after nail into the boards of my new home. My own home, one I designed and built, not one of the hovels the polis gives to vigiles. It's on the site of my grandfather's old home, in the heart of the city amongst the people. Bang, bang, bang and another nail drives in. From the distance someone yells at me.

"Iolalus, up!"

Standing in front of the frame of my new home, I can't figure out why Herc is yelling at me in such an urgent, annoyed tone. The pounding continues even though there is no longer a hammer in my hand.

"Get up now!"

My home fades to fog as I groan my way out of my dream. My eyes open to see bright light streaming into my room.

_Dear gods, how long have I slept?_

Herc pounds again and I bolt up out of bed. Blood rushes to my head as I stagger to the door and yank it open.

"What?" I ask rubbing my eyes.

A woman's gasp focuses my attention. Iole spins around turning her back to me. Herc throws me a scolding glare as I shrug an apology. How was I to know I needed to put on a tunic before answering?

"Get dressed and meet us in in the courtyard. We need to get ready. Or do you require more beauty sleep?"

"Give me five minutes."

"Two," Herc says as he and Iole head toward the staircase at the end of the hall. I dress in a rush and snatch up my sword, club, dagger, bow, and quiver of arrows, then dash down to join them.

Although the approaching bank of clouds makes it seem risky weather for dining in the courtyard, a breakfast of thick toast and scrambled eggs has been laid out alongside a platter of fruit and cheese. Herc sits with Iole on a curved metal bench, but not close enough to seem as if they are anything more than two people waiting for a shared acquaintance. Herc's own collection of weapons rests beside him.

"So, what now? Train a man-eating dog?" I ask as I fill a cup with the fragrant tea the Herenes brew and pile a plate with food. Herc gives a heavy sigh. "A giant, man-eating dog?"

Herc hands me a piece of paper. "This was in the post slot. Apparently our cousin can't be bothered to come to us in person."

I take a mouthful of buttered toast before setting down my plate to read the letter. By the second sentence I've stopped chewing. When I finish the note, I swallow the lump of bread that has turned dry in my mouth and have to read the words again to be certain my sleep-fogged mind isn't still dreaming.

"He's kidding, right?" I ask.

"I doubt it. Have you ever known Eury to joke?"

"The hydra? The nine-gods-be-damned-headed water serpent of the Lerna District? No one can kill that thing. I mean, why would you want to? She's no trouble any longer. No one lives near her swamp and Granddad rerouted the waterways so boats don't have to pass through there. Do you remember how scared I was of swimming as a kid?"

I laugh at the memory and even the corners of Herc's mouth turn up slightly. I grab my plate and gulp down my mound of eggs.

"Yes, you thought every body of water was home to a nine-headed monster."

The moment I set down my empty plate and tip back the rest of my tea, one of the acolytes begins clearing the breakfast dishes. I barely manage to whisk two more thick slices of buttered toast from the tray before the efficient woman takes it away.

"Iole, do you agree it's cruel that a young boy should hear daily reports of how many people had been killed by this territorial demon?" I ask. As we head back to the stables, I finish off both slices of bread.

She agrees, then adds, "But I don't understand this task. We learned to live with her. This isn't some ravenous lion with a taste for people."

"The only idiots who get killed by Old Lerna now are stupid teenagers trying to prove themselves brave by taunting the poor thing. She's quite useful for weeding out Portaceae's morons," I say brushing the buttery crumbs from my hands.

"You saw the instructions. 'By tomorrow, bring back as much blood as you can carry,'" Herc says.

"Why?" I ask. I have more to add to the question, but the words stick in my throat and I stop in my tracks when I see what waits for us in front of the stables. "Chariots?" I blurt as I step over to brush my hand across one of the wheels in awed wonder. The blonde boy, Cy, has two horses out and is attaching a chariot to one while the other waits its turn. On the floor of one chariot is a pile of water skins. "And skins?"

"You'll need them to carry the blood," Iole says.

Cy is capable with the animals and keeps asking for their patience, but it's plain he doesn't have the skills or the strength just yet to hook up the vehicles properly. I help the boy with the chariot he's working on as Herc tends to the other.

"Lerna's blood is poisonous," Iole says as she strokes the head of the horse Herc is working with. "I think Eury is planning to sell the blood to the Areans. They've been itching for war again. With weapons tipped in the serpent's blood, no one will stand a chance against them in battle."

"It's bad policy to mettle in the affairs of other city-states, especially the Areans," I say running the long reins from the horse's head to the platform of the chariot. "Who's to say the day they get the blood, they won't use it against Portaceae?"

"We don't have much of a choice. It's either get the blood or—I'm sorry I got you involved in this." Herc hangs his head low as he busies himself with checking over his horse's harness again.

"You didn't get me involved," I insist. "I volunteered. Besides, I wouldn't miss it for the world." I clap him on the back. Herc gives a light wince, but nothing more.

"His wounds," Iole warns.

"They're fine. I heal quickly," Herc says.

"But they—"

"Your Herene medics are quite skilled," he says throwing his quiver of arrows onto his back and stepping into his chariot. He gives his horse a light flick of the reins and cuts a tight circle to head for the courtyard. I follow after him in my own chariot and we ride out of the House of Hera. Looking back, I give Iole a final wave goodbye.

"The good news about being assigned this task is it means Eury's servant gave him the money," I say to Herc the moment we maneuver the chariots through the Peacock Gate and onto the Hera Way. After only a block, people begin flocking from other streets to see Herc and me on our chariots. I'm glad for the slowing as it gives me time to get used to the long, cumbersome reins. After a few blocks I get the feel for their weight and am ready to give my horse some slack. Cheers of praise and good luck hum through the crowd, but Herc ignores them.

"How is that good?" Herc asks.

"I thought the guy might run off with it and we'd be sent under after only one task." My chariot hits a hole in the road. The vehicle tilts, but bounces back to right just as quickly. I widen my stance to stay better balanced.

"Glad you can see the bright side of this. Let's just hope it goes as quickly as the lion."

"In a hurry to get back to someone?"

"Shut up, Iolalus."

I don't know what kind of establishment Iole is running at the House of Hera, but her horses and chariots are built for the long distance races Portaceae once held. I have vague memories of attending the races as a boy, but not like the older people of the polis. They can still recount moment by moment the excitement of the races in which each lap was a battle. A single race lasted twelve laps at break neck speeds around the mile-long track on which riders fought for the best position to clear the hairpin turns. It was as much a test of the horses' speed as the riders' bravado.

Once Eury took the Solonship, it wasn't long before the track fell into disrepair and the pounding of hooves drove ruts and holes into the surface that was supposed to be smoothed after every race. When race after race saw champion Astorian horses bred by Poseidon himself breaking legs or suffering career-ending injuries, the horse owners abandoned the lame steeds and refused to bring their mounts to any race in Portaceae.

These Herene horses could be those abandoned steeds or at least their offspring. Once outside the city gates, we let them fly and they never flag over the journey north. They even pull against the reins to go faster. When we dare to let them set their own pace, the chariots glide over the road like a sleek boat on a placid lake. Just as racing chariots were designed to absorb shock and reduce the strain on the driver, so are the ones Herc and I have our feet planted on—they may even be the same chariots that once whipped around Portaceae City's racetrack. As I lean into the padding along the chariot's front edge, I doubt even Eury's carriage provides a more comfortable or more exhilarating ride.

Thanks to its lack of use, the Lerna Road hasn't been rutted by the hooves of horses or the wheels of carts and remains in good enough condition to allow the horses to speed along. We're making excellent time, but the perfection of the morning is ruined by low clouds settling down into a thin fog. The moisture and wind race over me and chill my skin. When an uncontrollable shivering takes hold, I'm forced to slow my horse and wrap my cloak tight around my shoulders. Herc, who has his chariot alongside mine, also slows.

I have only vague memories of a time when the Lerna District was populated and those memories may only have been formed from tales my grandfather told me about the area. As with other poli, Portaceae is divided into districts such as Nemea to the east, Augea to the south, and the now-defunct Lerna to the north. The Solon cannot be expected to be everywhere at once—especially not a Solon as incapable at the job as Eury—so each district has a governor who manages the land, collects rents from tenants, and serves as judge.

My grandfather had made a point to tour his polis once each year, sometimes twice. Each visit to the Lerna District added to his realization that the district could not continue. The water monster was driving residents, farmers, and merchants from the area. On top of desirable people leaving, bounties on the monster's head attracted too many undesirables who developed their own version of the law and did not hunt fairly. They poisoned the lake and fashioned homemade grenades that destroyed all the wetland fauna except the monster they were after—the monster that ended up being given the name of the dying district. Angered over their lack of success, the bounty hunters turned on each other and those few people still residing in the district.

With every attack on her home, Lerna became meaner. With the easy pickings of men distracted by brawling one another, she grew larger and stronger than ever before. Once the poachers were gone, Lerna turned to devouring the travelers and traders trying to pass through the district on their way to Portaceae City. The governor pleaded with my grandfather saying the district was impossible to manage, the swampy land was good for little, and Lerna had clearly staked her claim. Reluctantly, my grandfather agreed, rehoused those who still lived in the area, and began a public works project so travelers would no longer have to pass through the district.

Lerna was a legend in herself. When people still traveled to Portaceae, the two best-selling souvenir postcards they purchased were those featuring drawings of the Herene peacocks and those sporting a rendering of Lerna. She is a part of Portaceae's identity, but for Herc and me to survive, this day will have to be her last.

The sun, visible only as a gauzy spot of yellow through the low clouds, is already past its midday height when the worn roadside sign that warns travelers to go no further comes into view. With his horse hobbled in the field beyond the muck of the swamp, Altair warms himself near a fire he's built on the road. When he sees us, he picks up his camera and trains it on us.

"Do you think Iole likes watching you in that chariot?" I ask.

"Iole is a Herene. She has a vow of chastity to uphold. Their virginity protects the polis."

"From the state of Portaceae, I think one or two of the Herenes haven't stuck to their vows. Besides, I don't think Iole would mind risking the wrath of Hera for you."

Herc tells me to shut up, but I don't miss the twitch at the corners of his mouth as he tries to suppress a grin. We slow the horses to a stop.

"Gods be with you, Altair. How are your children?" Herc asks as he reaches for Altair's hand and shakes it in greeting.

"And with you. They are well. Quite well. But my wife is feeling ill. Probably just some bad meat from the butcher."

"How long have you been here?" I ask looking to the fire.

"Since early morning. Fog always gives me a chill. The road was the only dry place to build a fire." He looks sheepishly between Herc and I probably worried that, as vigiles, we will insist he adhere to laws regarding campfires. "Should I put it out?" He clicks off the camera.

"No, it's not as if anything in this swamp would burn anyway," I say. Herc and I step out of the chariots. When I take my first step, I sway as if walking on the deck of ship caught in a storm. After being on the chariot, the ground feels like it's still moving under me. Altair's horse whinnies to ours as we work to release them from the chariots. Once the horses are hobbled and dining on dew-soaked grass, Herc and I gather our weapons and Altair follows after us.

The Lerna Road ends at the sign and as we continue beyond the warning, the grassy field changes over to tall reeds and the ground squishes under our feet. The horses' nickering to one another echoes off a steep rock face, but other than their calls, the area is silent. Even at midday, the fog that gathers over the lake is thick enough to block most of the sun's warmth.

"She's been in there since I arrived," Altair says pointing to a deep cave in the rock wall. "I've been checking the area out since I got here. The lake feeds into that cave. I'm not sure how far back the cavern goes, but you can see the size of it. The dikes have cut the lake off from the river just a bit north, but water has seeped into some of the lower areas to make sloughs. The sloughs and the rock face are catching this fog and making it stick."

"And Lerna's in the cave, you're sure?" Herc asks.

"I could see the outline of something in there. It could be Lerna, it could be a boulder, but whatever it is hasn't stirred and there's been no movement to ripple the water."

"Maybe she's dead already," I say.

"We don't have time to find out. We need to get her out of there."

Herc touches his chest, feeling for his vigile charm out of habit. All vigiles develop this ritual for good luck and, perhaps, for comfort. I've seen Herc do it more than once since giving up his charm and each time he drops his hand and shakes his head as if chastising himself for the superstitious gesture. He slips his bow from his shoulder and strides back to the fire.

"You may want to start filming," I say as my hand drifts to my own chest and touches both the charms I now wear—Herc's larger peacock with its clutch of a dozen arrows and my smaller peacock that grasps ten arrows. Altair hoists his camera onto his shoulder and clicks a button.

From his quiver, Herc selects several arrows with a black muck coating the spot between the shaft and the head. We don't use this type of arrow often as vigiles—part of our job being to put out fires, not start them—but we do keep them on hand for Portaceae's Founding Day. The arrows are dipped into a bonfire and then shot up into the air. With hundreds of vigiles doing it, the flaming arrows create a waterfall of fire that arcs into the river. Once I'd gotten old enough to get over my fear of swimming, I would go back the day after Founding Day to retrieve as many arrows as I could from the water. It was one of the few things I could do to impress Herc who has always been a poor swimmer.

Herc dips an arrow into the flames, notches it, aims for a fraction of a second and fires. Five more flaming arrows fly off in a span of only a moment. Each arrow lands in the cave, lighting the interior and hitting what is clearly not a boulder. Lerna, her moss-green hide glowing under the burning heads of the arrows, lets out a shrill call like the sound of a thousand hawks keening at once.

Lerna shows no sign of her age as she springs from her lair into the pool of the lake. She's massive. Her body could house our three horses and the chariots with room to spare. She has no legs, but if rumors are to be believed, she can slither her body faster than a centaur can run. The end of her fat tail is tipped in rattles, which she shakes above the water line as she lashes her body back and forth. There's no doubt the sound is a warning to back off.

I wonder how Herc can stand there, sizing her up as if she is simply another wrestling opponent. I've already taken several steps back without even noticing my feet were moving. I do not want to face this creature. My gut roils into a churning mess, not because of the rattling tail, but because of the horror at the other end.

_Dear gods, the other end. _

I hadn't believed it even as a child, but there it is only a stone's throw away from me hissing and screeching its anger. The neck, something the size of an oak tree, sprouts into nine thick branches topped with nine reptilian heads that snap, writhe, and twist against one another. Each time she lets out another hawkish cry, Lerna shows nine mouthfuls of jagged teeth that look as sharp as broken glass. At every moment no fewer than a dozen of the monster's black eyes are fixed on us.

"Any ideas?" I ask.

"She can't leave the water," Herc observes. "She's too big. She'll suffocate under her own weight."

"Then let's get her out. Easy as can be."

"There's not time. It could take her a day or more to die and we can't risk taking the blood with those heads still active."

"So we cut off the heads."

He gives me a grin of approval. "Exactly what I was thinking. Guard me."

We drop our bows and arrows and loose our short swords. With a yell as if going into battle, Herc runs to the lake's edge. He's either betting on the element of surprise or he's simply getting the deed over with quickly before having second thoughts. I chase after him, keeping to his side.

Lerna lunges out of the water at us but slithers back in as we swipe our blades at her. She isn't going to be tricked into coming out of her habitat. Herc paces the edge of the lake in a crouched, cautious stance. He waves his sword in time with the heads' rhythmic swaying. I understand what he's doing—judging the timing to make a strike—but have no idea how he intends to reach any of the necks. My own eyes flick to each one of the reptilian heads. I ready my sword to attack if any of them makes a lunge toward my cousin.

"The tail," Altair shouts.

I jerk my head, but the warning has come a moment too late. I curse myself for my stupidity of ignoring the old girl's hind end. Her tail has slithered around to only a hand's breadth from Herc's leg.

"Herc, back up," I yell.

Herc takes a step, but the tail is already flying like a whip. It snaps out straight, the end giving off a sharp rattle like hail on a thin roof. In less than a heartbeat, the tail coils around Herc's leg. In another whip-like move, Lerna yanks the tail up, dangling Herc in front of her heads.

I rush forward, but can do nothing. The creature is too far out of reach. Herc doesn't pause a moment. His sword slashes out each time the tail swings him near a head. His third attempt connects with a neck and one of the heads tumbles into the water below. As Herc lets out a triumphant holler, the monster gives another of her piercing shrieks while she writhes and splashes about. Her distraction and movement allows Herc the chance to slice off two more heads in quick succession. The air fills with the scent of her blood—a smell that reminds me of rotting cherries.

I dart forward with my sword ready, but before I can aim a blow my sword plops into the mud at my feet. I scramble to pick it up, but can't take my eyes off the sight before me.

From each of the stumps left by Herc's sword, two heads emerge. Starting as buds bubbling out of the blood that pulses in time with Lerna's heart, the buds stretch up like bean sprouts reaching for light. In little time the hideous things are fully formed with snapping mouths filled with shards of teeth.

I don't know if Herc notices the regeneration or not. If he does, my cousin is an idiot because he continues hacking and hollering until there are fifteen heads dancing around him.

One head has to control the others. All fifteen can't lead or Lerna would be pulled in more than a dozen directions at once with every move she makes. But if the lead head is cut, will she die or will another take over as leader? The only sure option will be to cut all the heads off, but that is proving impossible as new ones keep growing from the fresh wounds.

_Fresh wounds. Can that be it?_

My chain of thought is broken by a scream of pain. One of the heads, apparently tired of playing, has bitten Herc's leg leaving ragged wounds across his thigh. His face pulled tight in anger, Herc lifts back his sword to cut the head off.

"Herc, stop," I yell. "Wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"Look about you." Herc scans his opponent. Realization and then fear sprout on his face as heads pop up from Lerna's wounds. "No more cutting," I tell him. He lowers his sword as he swings past me.

"No problem. I'll just hang out."

I sprint back to the chariots and grab our clubs. I rip the padding off the front of the vehicles and lash it onto the top of the clubs with the lacing from my boots.

At the fire, I dip the clubs into the low flames as I kick off my loose boots. The dry padding catches fire instantly, but, without pitch on hand, I can only hope the makeshift torches will stay lit. I rush to the lake's edge shifting both clubs into one hand as I run. As I was taught to do as a boy and perfected in vigile training, I leap from the ground to mount Lerna imagining her as the meanest, ugliest horse I've ever ridden. Unfortunately, I've never been trained to leap onto a horse's back while clutching two flaming clubs and don't make as perfect a landing as I'd hoped. Just as I'm righting myself, a head swings down at me and snaps with its shattered-glass teeth. I tilt sideways. It misses but the mouth is so close I can see the glint of fish scales on the jagged teeth. With my thighs clenched tight, I use my elbows to grip Lerna's scaly trunk of a neck and pull myself up.

"What are you doing?" Herc asks as he swings by me. From hanging upside down, his face has become a swollen eggplant.

"Wait to cut until I give the word." I continue crawling up Lerna's neck, thankful for her rough, gnarled skin that gives me a foothold even as it grates at the flesh on my legs and arms. I push away the worry of what will happen if her vile blood drips into my wounds.

Once to the top of her main neck, it's like being in a den of giant snakes. My skin crawls and I pray to whatever gods have given rise to this creature that I'm up far enough without being in the path of Herc's sword. I hold tight with my thighs leaving both hands free to wield the torches.

"Now!" I shout.

Herc hacks through one, two, three heads with one stroke.

"Hold!" I yell. Herc stays his hand.

As quick as I can, I jab the flames into the wounds. The sizzling flesh and blood stink of burning vinegar. I pinch my lips tight to keep any spatters out of my mouth.

Lerna screeches and bucks. Still holding the torches, I fling my arms around her. She whips her heads back and forth attempting to knock me off, but years of horseback riding have given me the strength to ride this thrashing serpent. Herc whizzes past me, his leg still bound tight by the tail.

"I think we pissed her off," I joke as Herc makes another pendulum swing past me. He laughs. And then his laughter is falling away from me. Lerna has released her tail's grip.

Herc crashes into the lake. The heads, snapping the entire time, plunge in after him. I hold tight as I ride the neck and keep the torches as high as possible so the splashing water won't extinguish them. My grip digs one of the torches into the old girl's skin and she rears up. Her heads gnash aimlessly trying to latch onto whatever has burned her.

The distraction gives Herc time to struggle to shore. He's bleeding from the bite in his leg and from wounds on his arms as well as from his back where the gashes from the lion have reopened. The heads regain their interest in my cousin and dive forward after him.

Herc spins around. Without taking a single breath to think, he readies his sword as one of the heads careens toward him. He swings once, removes one head, then takes another one on the back swing. I grapple toward the stumps. Two fists of growth emerge from the pulsing blood of the first wound. My stomach churns at the overwhelming foul fruit stench. When a newly formed black eye opens, I cram the flaming club into it. Before the second stump can begin its growth, I sear it shut with the other club.

"Don't cut more than two at a time," I say. It's only by the luck of the gods that the clubs are still burning and I fear to guess how much longer that luck will hold. I want to hurry, but I also don't want to face more heads than already threaten us if I can't close the gashes from Herc's sword.

Herc cuts and I cauterize until after what seems like days, only two heads remain. Old Lerna has stopped her shrieking. Instead, the heads howl a lament to each other. Despite all, the sound tugs at me. I want to leave her. She's done nothing to deserve this.

Without warning, Herc cuts. One head splashes into the lake and I race to cauterize the neck. In my sorrow for the creature, I've loosened my hold on the clubs. Newly formed necks begin their sprout-like growth as I scramble to renew my grip on my torches. I manage to dip one of the flames into the regenerating flesh. Lerna jerks her remaining head back, grazing my hand. I fumble, and the club slips out of my grasp. With a reach that nearly unseats me, I narrowly catch the torch's end in my fingertips. It isn't enough. Lerna's head whips back around knocking the flaming club from my fingers.

"Don't cut. Don't cut," I yell.

There is no time to grieve the loss of the torch. Left alone, the final head of the old girl is not about to give up. It lunges toward Herc. He manages to leap back leaving her jaws snapping at the swamp. With her face in the muck, Herc hits at the head with the broad edge of his sword. The blows make Lerna jerk her head out of the lake, sending water spraying in every direction. Droplets rain down on me as I struggle to protect the remaining torch. It's no use. The final flame sputters and hisses out.

With a curse that would make a centaur blush, I jump off Lerna's back and land hard on a flat stone hidden by the mud. A thousand pins shoot through my legs. Ignoring the pain, I race to find a heavy stick that will work as a torch.

The _whoosh_ of a blade sucks all sound from the air and locks my body in place. The world turns into an endless tunnel. From outside the tunnel I hear Herc curse and something heavy hit the ground. The tunnel squeezes tight and spits me back to the Lernean Swamp.

I spin around. The creature's final head rests at Herc's feet. Already buds are emerging from the bleeding neck that flops at the shoreline. My mind shouts at me to use my vigile training, to ignore my frustration and kick myself into action, but I'm too stunned to curse let alone react.

From behind me I hear an approaching yell. Out of the corner of my eye, a flame races toward me like a fireball from a catapult. Faster than I would have imagined his stick legs could carry him, Altair flies past me and plunges a burning log into Lerna's neck. All the while he manages to hold tight to the strap of his camera. Even after the wound has sizzled shut, he yells and jabs the flame into the old girl's final stump again and again. A wave laps to the shore dousing the flame which finally silences our cameraman. Staggering back from the water, Altair sucks in deep gulps of air keeping his eyes and camera fixed on what he has done.

Old Lerna's body collapses in a heap sending out ripples across the body of the lake. The final head's black eye still stares up at us, watching us. The eye blinks a few more times, each time it opens a little less. My throat tightens when the lid opens no more.

In an unsteady voice Herc says, "We need to collect the blood before it won't flow and before she sinks into the muck."

Standing knee deep in the mud Lerna's thrashing has churned up, we make small cuts into the side of Lerna's lifeless body and arrange the water skins in rows. Using the hollow reeds that grow around the lake as taps, we fill skin after skin with the thick, rotten cherry-scented blood.

Altair, his hands still trembling, clicks off his camera.

"Done filming?" Herc asks.

"I think they got enough of a show."

Herc then gathers all the arrows from our quivers and dips them in a pool of blood at the end of one of the reeds. Once he has coated them all, we work together to shove Lerna's body into the lake where it bobs for several moments before the water swallows her whole.

As a final gesture of respect for our foe, we bury Lerna's last head in the field beyond the lake.

"Good bye, Old Lerna," Herc says with a shaky voice. "You were a worthy foe even if you didn't deserve to die."

"Hera protect Portaceae," Altair and I mutter.

"Let's get these skins to our Solon," Herc says. His words boil with disgust.

We load the chariots and fit the horses back into their harnesses. Herc tosses my boots to me and I slip them over my muddy feet before climbing into my chariot. The faint orb of sun that shines through the clouds is still two hand widths above the horizon so we don't hurry our way back. The three of us ride in silence the full distance.

* * *

With the cloud cover and our somber moods, we pay no heed to how quickly the sun dips into the horizon. Too late I realize we should have given the horses free rein. By the time we reach the gate to the city, the tender has already pulled his heavy iron bars across the city's main entrance. We race toward him.

"Hold," I yell. "Hold the gate."

Two vigiles step out holding spears as the gate tender, a portly man of about fifty, continues working the crank.

"You're late," the left vigile says. "Gates are shut at sunset. Your business will have to wait until dawn."

"You idiot, Odysseus," I shout. Even in the low evening light I can't miss his smooth Illamosian accent. "Open the gate or I'll give orders for the centaurs to bugger you until you shit ponies."

"Iolalus?" Odysseus asks and then starts laughing. We'd served patrol duty on Portaceae's outskirts only three months ago and passed the time seeing which of us could come up with the most outlandish punishments. My one about the ponies left him conceding defeat and for days after, he would laugh at the oddest moments as he muttered, "Shit ponies."

"Tender, open the gate. It's our new commander and—" He jerks to a rigid vigile stance and then bows low. "My apologies, Commander Dion, I should have recognized you."

Herc shifts uncomfortably on the chariot platform and his unease passes through to his horse who begins tossing his head and tugging on the reins. "It's fine. Just open the gates, if you will."

With a look of annoyance etched on his face, the tender hauls the gate back open. As we ride through, the vigiles bow again to us.

Once through the gates, Altair says his goodbyes and Herc and I wind our way through the city to the road that will take us up the hill to Eury's ridiculously large estate. As we pass through Portaceae City, the streets are strangely quiet and the metal-rimmed wheels of the chariots clatter as loud as thunder over the cobbles. Even on the cloudiest summer evening people usually mill about gossiping and sharing samples of their latest batch of fruit wine. Tonight, the streets are empty. A few faces peek out of windows and give us a cheery thumbs up, but they duck back inside as soon as they've caught our eye.

Once up the hill, we guide the chariots to the courtyard. Eury, who must have seen our approach, stands at the entry to the yard with two men dressed in olive green tunics and hardened leather chest plates embossed with crossed swords. Military dress for the vigiles of Ares's polis.

"Herc, Iolalus," Eury greets us with false warmth as we step out of the chariots. We must look like monsters ourselves. Herc is covered in his own blood, and Lerna's scales have scraped me from chest to calf. To top off the effect, my tunic is tatters and my feet are caked in dried mud and half shod in unlaced boots.

Herc and I haul the skins from the chariots, piling them at Eury's feet. After dropping the final one Herc says, "Your delivery, Excellency. Consider this task complete."

Eury's false smile transforms into a vicious grin.

"I don't think so, cousins."

"We destroyed the serpent and took her blood as you asked," I protest. My arm twitches, ready to punch Eury in the face.

"You didn't complete it. Remember, I was watching. All of Portaceae was watching. Seems the real hero of the day is that cameraman. He dealt the final blow, not you."

I lunge toward Eury, but Herc grabs hold of me.

"So we die?" I ask struggling against Herc's arms. "We do this, we kill that poor beast and we still die. You're a bastard."

"No," Eury says, his face composed but wary. "I think our cousin still holds that title. Now, I'm busy. Go back to that house of frigidity and get cleaned up. You're disgusting."

"And our lives?" Herc asks.

Eury turns. He raises his eyebrows and curls his lips in a condescending sneer.

"Are still in my hands."

## CHAPTER TWELVE

### _Eury_

AFTER WATCHING MY cousins ride away on their ridiculous chariots, the Areans test the weight of the skins and open each one to sniff at the contents as if I might be trying to pass off water as hydra's blood. They then step aside, whispering to one another. I try to decipher the actions of their fingers and gesticulations as they go back and forth calculating what the poison might be worth. Finally they return and announce they've settled on a price of two million drachars. The amount staggers me, but, picturing how Baruch holds himself, I maintain a bored expression as if I use that number of drachars to wipe the soil from my ass after spending time on the chamber pot.

Once we drink a toast to seal the deal and the Areans leave, I abandon my false good mood and storm up the stairs to the Gods' Room. My nose throbs the entire climb as if it will burst from my frustration. As I pass the second floor landing, Adneta calls to me from the bedroom and even she can't alleviate the pounding hatred in my head for my cousins.

I wrench on the knob of the Gods' Room door. It slips under my sweaty palm so I grip it with both hands and try to turn it.

_Of course it won't budge, you idiot. She's not in there. Not when you need her. _

Enough of waiting for her. This time she can come to me. I pound on the heavy wooden door so hard I feel the latch rattle in the lock.

"Hera!"

I pace the landing, yelling her name and driving my fist into the door with each syllable.

I'm through with this task business Hera has devised. It makes no matter that I won't be able to use Herc any further. If I'm careful, these two million drachars can certainly keep Adneta in jewels, silks, and perfumes for years.

Who will I send under first? It should be Iolalus. Hera would like that. She'll enjoy watching Herc suffer behind the bars of a jail cell knowing he's killed his flame-haired protégé.

A crackling sound from beyond the door jerks me from my thoughts. A cold light emanates from underneath the door. When I try it again, the handle turns freely and I burst into the room ready to argue. The room is filled with moonlight although no moon shines through the windows. Hera stands in the center of the space in a gown that also appears to be made of moon beams.

"You could ask nicely when you want to see me," Hera says as she slinks toward me. The sight of her hips swaying under her silvery gown stirs my raging blood.

Gods, if only she would take a mortal lover.

There is no sense in her loyalty to Zeus who seems to possess a need to bed every beautiful woman he lays eyes on. If I could take her on the floor at this moment I would have her panting my name before the second thrust.

"I'm too angry to do anything nicely." I ease closer to her until I can feel her breath on my skin. "If that interests you in any way."

She tweaks my nose and steps away without taking her gold-flecked eyes off me.

"We're married. You know the laws regarding adultery. Now, I assume you have a reason to beckon me other than to seduce me."

"I'm through with this. He's gaining—no, _they're_ gaining popularity. Only two tasks in and Portaceae City was near to rioting this evening. And I think the vigiles might have let them."

I will never admit it, but the scene in the arena had driven chills through me down to my calf-skin sandals.

When the cameraman closed off the final wound on the monster's neck, the crowd became a volcano of cheers for all of the men on the screen and spewed insults toward me. The vigiles stood by as the first tier of the audience rushed onto the floor of the arena heading straight to the tunnel that would take them to my staircase, to my royal box. The vigiles did nothing to block the hoard and some dared to hand over their own short swords to arm people as they swarmed by.

Thankfully, high wages and free use of the brothel has purchased loyalty from my guards. Stationed at the tunnel's entrance, they saw what was coming and, at the final moment, barred the door. Several people were crushed as the crowd slammed into the barrier. Only then, only when the people trampled over a line of dead and broken bodies did the vigiles act to quell the mayhem. Not to protect me, but to protect the people.

The worst part was the scene had been witnessed by my Arean visitors. During the carriage ride back to the villa, I could feel their eyes on me, judging me as they tried to suppress amused grins. I hold no doubt that I could have gotten more for the blood had they not seen me as weak thanks to the fury my cousins had ignited in the crowd.

Once safe in my villa, I ordered a curfew effective immediately. Anyone caught outside their homes or even peering out their windows when my cousins arrived would be subject to laboring in the sewers for a minimum of thirty days.

"Their efforts also bring Portaceae much needed money," Hera says. "Once your two million is accounted for by the Herenes, they will use it to benefit my polis."

I turn to walk a circle around the room to hide my smile at Hera's expense. The gods can be so blind when they think every effort is for them. The money rests in my hands. I'm not about to give it up.

"Two million drachars. What will that cover? The repair of a handful of buildings and a few miles of road?"

"I've no doubt you spent the money from the lion on your whore, but surely you can't need two million drachars to keep her satisfied." She looks to my groin on the final words.

If Hera had done her job and protected this polis, we wouldn't have any need to worry about finances. We'd have an abundance of resources like all the other city-states of Osteria.

It takes every effort to keep my thoughts out of my mouth. I have other cats to hang and don't want to bicker about who is truly responsible for Portaceae's decline. I cross the room to Hera who has gone to look out the west-facing window.

"I won't let them continue," I insist. "If he succeeds again, the people will revolt and the vigiles will encourage it. Will you be able to stop them to keep me in power?"

She spins. The cool light in the room explodes with a burst of silver flames that flick hot tongues at me. Hera's eyes flare with more anger than is boiling just below my surface.

"Do not judge me or think I will step in to help you," she commands. "You need to manage your people."

"They're your people too, goddess."

"Maybe," she continues in a milder tone that is still tinged with acid. "Did it ever occur to you to cut the feed? They can't celebrate and cheer for what they don't know about. It was stupid to even allow it in the first place."

"But the engineers say they can't switch the power back to–"

"They figured it out once, they can figure it out again. I swear, had I known your incapacity for thought, I'd have forced Iolalus to appear before your father ever spat you into your mother's womb. Now, do you really want to end this?"

I do, but I also fear sending my cousins under. With their popularity, if I relinquish my mercy now I will be seen as the monster. What then? How long will it take the people to tear down the very walls of my villa to get to me? But leaving either of my cousins alive to continue on this path to glory will certainly spell my doom. My head spins around again to the blood crime vault. If Portaceae was rid of Herc, Hera might be different. His death would call an end to her obsessive hatred, stop this stupid fit of jealousy, and Portaceae would thrive. And who would the people love for restoring the polis's glory? Me. If I can only keep them from revolting first.

The benefits outweigh the risks. With two million drachars I can hire more guards and still have enough left over for Adneta.

"Yes, he's failed this task. By the rules, it's over," I say. My heart thuds in my chest with every word.

I expect Hera to be elated, but no look of pleasure crosses her face at my answer. Her mouth sags with worry, but she flicks her head to toss back her hair and forces a curt smile. The flames die down and the silvery glow returns to the room.

"Fine. Personally, I'd rather watch him suffer, but so far the tasks have been too easy. He's almost seemed to enjoy them. We'll send him on another labor."

"Another? But that will only give him more glory. No, he failed, he must be sent under."

"Gods, is your mind so weak?" She flicks me on the head with a snap of her hand. The sting singes through my skull and down my neck. I glare at her, daring her to do it again. "Would you seem so petty? What would the people think? They saw Herc and Iolalus defeat the hydra. If you send him under on a technicality, they will indeed revolt. Why not show yourself the better man and allow him to serve Portaceae once more?"

"And if he succeeds? How will I be rid of him if he succeeds?"

"You're so certain of his ability," she says coyly.

"I know my cousin. His strength and cunning are as plentiful as his sense of duty and loyalty."

"Rest assured that he will lose either way in this. If he fails, which is quite likely, you will have every right to send him under. If he succeeds, he will feel the wrath of a goddess who is not known for her forgiveness."

_Were any of them? _

"What do you have in mind?"

"In Cedonia, Artemis keeps a herd of sacred deer. One of them, a stag born with a bronze hooves and golden antlers is her favorite. The animal is like a child to the goddess—eating out of her hand, sleeping at her feet. If Herc kills this creature, Artemis will take revenge on him. And Artemis's revenge tends to be rather final."

"But the gods can't kill. Hasn't that always been the only law that binds your power?"

"It is, but it seems Artemis tends to loose many stray arrows in her woods." The corners of Hera's mouth curl up in a satisfied and infectious grin. Despite the sting that still burns across my scalp, I can't help but smile as well.

"Let's send him now, then." I take her cool, smooth hand and kiss it. "What matter that it's nightfall, unlock the city gates and boot him out."

"In the morning. Let him rest and have his wounds tended to. Let him enjoy a late start. You want to make sure he's fully rested so he can find the stag, don't you?"

"And the feed?"

She slips her hand out of mine.

"Leave it on. Let the people of Portaceae see their hero defiling the possessions of the gods. That way, when Artemis sends her arrow through him, they won't mourn his death. They will know he got what he deserved. Without the feed, who knows what rumors might come of how he died."

My elation at the thought of being rid of my cousin without dirtying my hands or reputation leaves me feeling more desirous than ever. I watch Hera look out the window at the shadows of Portaceae City, observe how her gown hugs the curves of her buttocks, and wonder what it feels like to be between a goddess's legs.

I stalk toward her, trying to decide what to do first with my hands—hold her sleek waist, brush my fingertips along her upper arm, or just take a handful of ripe immortal ass? When I am within arm's reach, she spins and gives me a cold stare.

"We are done here. I suggest you practice your grieving face for your cousins' funerals."

And with that, she disappears leaving me nothing to grab but the mist of air she leaves behind. I waft it over me, letting it kiss my skin like dew. The feeling, the idea it is Hera upon me coupled with my already aroused state, overwhelms me with desire. I hurry out of the Gods' Room, rush down the stairs, and rouse Adneta from sleep by pushing myself between her thighs.

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

### _Iole_

I'M TOSSING DRIED corn to the peacocks when a pair of black horses slows and the Solon's golden carriage comes to a stop in front of the Peacock Gate. A flurry of protective anger surges through me. I throw down the remaining corn and march toward the gaudy contraption. Behind me, the peacocks scatter the pebbles of the walkway trying to race one another to the grain. As I approach, Eury's tall, olive-skinned servant opens the carriage door.

"No," I say as Eury steps one foot out of the carriage. "He has just spent a night getting filled and refilled with stitches. He can't go on another task so soon."

Eury pulls himself fully out of the carriage and scans me in a way that makes me feel as if I should put on more clothes, but I don't back down. The wounds on Herc's body had taken four medics to clean and close, and two bottles of wine to dull his pain as they worked. Cecilia, the House's lead medic, had been irate when she saw the stitches on his back—the ones he'd received after facing the lion—had been ripped out. But she agreed the wounds had been surprisingly close to healed so neither the damage nor the blood loss had been as bad as they might have been.

Still, to send him on another task so soon would be cruel.

"Calm yourself, Priestess, or people will think you love him." He grins and I hate myself for the burst of warmth in my cheeks. "The task I have in mind is simple. We need a new attraction to boost interest in the city, to draw tourists, to make Portaceae City proud."

"What did you have in mind? A chimera? That'd be a nice challenge for your cousins."

"I'll add it to my consideration, but no. It's a deer, my dear. The most beautiful in all of Osteria. He'll have to travel to Cedonia and may use the train. I'm providing permits." He snaps his fingers and the servant reaches up to rummage through a brown leather satchel on the driver's seat of the carriage. "Today's train has already gone and the journey will take at least another half day. Plenty of time for those wounds to patch up."

I open my mouth to protest. He hasn't seen the extent of the injuries. But Eury cuts me off before I can utter a word.

"No, don't argue. If I know my cousin, it won't take long. He was always such a fast healer. Such a freak."

The servant hands Eury an envelope, which Eury then presents to me. I keep my hands crossed over my chest.

"Take it to him yourself."

The Solon's behavior changes in an instant. His cocksure stance falls away as he begins shifting about on his feet. His haughty expression switches to that of someone looking for a way out of an uncomfortable conversation. He even backs toward the carriage until he bumps into the still open door.

"Damn the gods," he curses and throws the envelope at my feet. "He has two weeks," he says as he fumbles himself into the carriage seat.

"Two weeks," I scoff. "And only two days to tackle a lion and Old Lerna? Suddenly feeling generous?"

Eury stretches to reach for the door's handle but his earlier bumble has knocked the door wide open. His eyes dart about for his driver who is busying himself with adjusting one of the horse's bridles. Unless it suddenly sprouts an extra foot in length, Eury's arm will never extend to the handle. I step over to the door and, resisting the urge to slam it on his stubby fingers, push it so it is just within his reach. As his fingers waggle to get a grip on the handle, he eyes me like a dog who wants to attack but hasn't the nerve.

"No more generous than any man. I simply want to make sure he completes this labor. After all, it would be a shame to see him sent under, or so people tell me."

The Solon's fingers find the handle and he yanks the door shut. Not noticing the end of his toga still hangs out of the door, he bangs on the side of the carriage and shouts, "Get this thing moving."

The servant's face pulls into an annoyed scowl as he takes his time getting into the driver's seat. With a jangle of the reins, the carriage rolls off, hits an easily avoidable pothole, and then another. The sight of the driver giving his master a harsh ride lightens my mood slightly.

I pick up the envelope at my feet. It is unsealed. Inside are two rail passes and two border crossing permits. The Solon hasn't even bothered to fill in the names. Anyone could use the documents to leave the polis. My hands ripple with a tremble as I dart my eyes to the gate wondering if anyone passing by has seen what I have. To hold two blank travel permits is as risky as flaunting a satchel of gold in a dark alley of the city's roughest neighborhoods. I tuck the papers deep into the pocket of the apron that covers my dress.

Of late, many people have expressed an interest in leaving Portaceae to look for a better life elsewhere in Osteria. They've come to me for travel documents, but Eury—no doubt exacting a hefty fee for the slips of paper—took control of all travel permits last year. Now, only the very rich of Portaceae can afford to leave, and many of them are taking their wealth with them leaving Portaceae even poorer.

If rumor was to be believed, the Karadimos—Portaceae's wealthiest family and the only other resident left on the Solonian Hill—had recently held their own farewell party only days before heading north to Seattica. It would have been the night of Herc's conviction, I now realize. Eury was invited as a jest to show him what his polis was losing with their departure. He'd apparently been too drunk to get the jape and signed off on their travel permits in a sloshing scrawl as he toasted the Karadimos's good health.

I smile at the thought of Eury being made a fool of by people he believed to be his close friends, but something nags at me about this latest task. I watch the peacocks scuttling around one another after the remaining fragments of corn. Such undignified behavior for animals that are supposed to be sacred—

_Dear gods, Eury wouldn't dare._

Sending the birds into a flutter, I rush across the courtyard to the guest wing's stairwell. A deer in Cedonia important enough to draw Eury's interest has to be the stag of Artemis—a stag the goddess will do anything to protect. With no one around to see my unladylike behavior and not wanting to waste a single moment, I jog up the steps two at a time. Iolalus answers my knock on Herc's door with an amused grin.

"Shut up, Iolalus," I say imagining how my flushed cheeks and rapid breathing must look. I can't help but smile. How could this good-humored man have come from the same family as Herc who is so serious, and Eury who makes my skin crawl with his every word and look?

Still, I need to control my feelings for Herc if even Eury can see them. There is little point of loving him anyway. I am a Herene for life as part of a pact I made with my mother long ago. A pact that if I break—

I stop my foolish thoughts. By law, Herc will be married again soon and when the tribute trials are done, I will be nothing more to him than head priestess of Portaceae.

Inside the room, Herc reclines on the bed. Bed rest was Cecilia's condition for him to return to his quarters, but the instant he sees me, he stands.

"Priestess, I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting—" he stammers.

"No, I apologize. I should have sent a message to meet with you when you were ready. Rest." I go to the empty glass on the bedside table and fill it with cold water from the pitcher. "Here." His fingers touch mine as he takes the glass and I curse my imagination for thinking the action might be on purpose. "Your cousin has paid a visit."

"Not another?" Iolalus says as he slumps into a chair. "Let me guess. Herc has to drown a unicorn in its own blood."

"Not quite. But at least you're being given two weeks to finish this."

"Why so generous?" Herc asks as he sits back down on the edge of the bed. On the bench at the foot of the bed, his weapons are arranged in an organized row.

"That was my same question. It'll take you most of the day tomorrow to get to Cedonia and another day to return. You can't leave until morning so that leaves eleven days to find it. I just don't know why he's giving you so long."

"Find what?" Herc asks.

"A deer. A stag to be precise."

"A stag?" Iolalus says. "There are plenty of bachelor stags in Forested Park. We can just take one of them. He'll never know."

"He will. He wants the stag of Artemis. Golden antlers, silvery white fur, hooves of bronze. He's hard to mistake."

"Dead, I suppose. So he can take the precious metals from its body?" Herc's voice is filled with contempt.

"No, he wants it alive. He wants us to think it's to improve Portaceae's mood, perhaps attract visitors, but I don't believe that."

"Should be easy. We'll leave today. With your horses we can ride faster than the train." Herc stands again and winces as he swings the quiver of arrows onto his back.

_The arrows._

"That's it! Your cousin is an absolute bastard." I want to hit my head against the wall for my poor choice of words. "Sorry, I meant no offense," I say to Herc. He smiles warmly.

"It's only a word. And not the worst I've heard. Although a surprising one to come out of the mouth of a Herene."

"Yes, well, our bodies have to be virtuous, not our tongues. Your cousin is trying to get you killed."

"He saved me."

"Only to be his errand boy and now he may be done with you. I also believe he fears you. You should have seen his reaction when I told him to deliver his message to you himself. He all but wet his toga."

"I wish I'd seen that," Iolalus says.

"Once Artemis finds her stag injured or taken she will find you and kill you."

"Why not just stick me in the box?"

"Eury isn't popular, but he's not suicidal either. The only praise he's received from the people of late is his show of mercy toward you. You haven't been here when the feeds come through. Portaceae is crazy for both of you. If he kills you, they won't just speak of revolting, they will revolt. But, if you're killed by Artemis, well, then it was all part of the show. Eury wants to be rid of you without any blood on his hands. It's why you're still alive after his claim yesterday that you didn't properly complete the task and why I'm going with you on this one."

Herc drops the bag he has been filling.

"What?" he asks, his eyes stunned wide.

"I'm a Herene, a connection to the goddess Hera. If I'm there to vouch for you, to talk to Artemis, she may not kill you."

" _May_ not kill him?" Iolalus asks incredulously. "That's the best you can do?"

"Iolalus," Herc scolds.

"Yes," I admit. "Unless she decides to shoot first and ask questions later. She's better with a bow than you are," I say to Herc. "She won't miss. She loves all animals, but this one is special to her. Look at these." I hand the envelope to Herc. He flips through the slips of paper.

"There are no names on these. He handed these to you with no names on them? Doesn't he realize how dangerous that is? People would kill for these."

"He may have. More likely, he's just too lazy to pick up a quill. I'm not. I can fill in my name and yours."

"And me?" Iolalus asks.

"No," I reply. "There are only two passes and two tickets."

"But Iolalus is my volunteer."

"Tributes are allowed one companion during their tasks. You have to complete ten tasks—eleven now that Eury won't count Lerna. There's nothing in the law that says you're required to take the same companion on each one. Think of it as a vacation," I say to Iolalus. He nods his head absently as if he agrees with my logic even though Herc's face is tight, sealed off from the proposal.

"It would be best if Eury doesn't know you're going," Iolalus suggests. "After Lerna, you never know what loophole he might decide to whip up."

"No," Herc roars throwing the envelope down on the bed. "I won't have you risking yourself. It's bad enough my foolish cousin has volunteered, but there's no reason for you to waste your life on me. If I fail this, you die."

If he only knew he faced more risks on this labor than I do. I step around him and, as he reaches for it, I snatch up the envelope. Before he can take it back, I slip it into my pocket.

"Then we mustn't fail. The train to Cedonia leaves just before dawn. No," I say as Herc tries to protest, "no argument. The train is slow but you're not fit to ride yet. It will be dark in the morning and we can wear hoods to disguise ourselves. Iolalus, send word to Altair that he isn't needed on this task. He's not the most graceful of men and will only scare the deer off. Herc, be ready and meet me in the courtyard an hour before dawn."

Before either of them can argue, I leave the room, my heart pounding with excitement over what I've just committed myself to.

* * *

The sky is just showing the change from night black to crepuscular blue when Herc's footsteps crunch across the courtyard. Slung over his shoulder are a traveling pack, his bow, and a quiver of arrows. At his hip hangs his short sword. He wears the brown travelling cloak I sent up to him last night and pulls the hood over his head as he approaches. I slip my hood on as well and heft a pack of food from the kitchens onto my shoulders. We walk in silence to the train depot at the northern end of the heart of Portaceae City. Upon boarding, the conductor looks over our permits with a critical eye before recognizing the names on them.

"Priestess. Commander Dion." He bows low, then stands upright and takes Herc's hand in his, shaking it as Herc tries to pull back. "Such an honor to meet you. There's a private compartment in the third car."

"There's no need," Herc says as he manages to get his hand back.

"No, there is. You give us such hope. Such inspiration for—well, I shouldn't say, but you would make an excellent Solon."

Herc stares at the man. "You have a Solon. Portaceae has a Solon and it isn't me."

I smile at the man apologetically as Herc squeezes into the train car's corridor.

"He meant no harm," I say following Herc to the third car.

"Disloyalty is harmful." He holds the compartment door open for me. "Let's hope we can avoid drawing any further attention."

We settle into the compartment, sitting opposite one another. As the train pulls out of the station and begins its slow journey, I think how much faster it would be to just take the horses. But Herc needs rest, despite what Eury says about his healing ability. Once Portaceae City is out of view, Herc's head droops into sleep. Eventually, he slides down onto the bench seat and slumbers as the train rocks along.

The train travels east alongside the Great Col River and the view from the window holds my attention as we rattle past small, wooded islands and osprey dive to snatch trout from the river. Across the Col, steep cliffs jut up and then smooth out into hills painted in an assortment of greens. Herc sees none of this as his head lolls about in time with the train's swaying.

It isn't until the conductor knocks on our door that Herc wakes.

"Apologies," the conductor says. "It's just a formality. We've crossed into Cedonia." He extends his hand and I give him the travel permits. After checking the arrival box and completing the date and time, he hands them back. He opens his mouth, about to say something to Herc, but Herc turns his attention to the view out the window. The conductor shuts his mouth and a look of defeat crosses his face as he slides the compartment door shut.

"You can't know how many people wish you were leader," I say handing him a roll from my bag. "Or Iolalus."

"Iolalus would be a better leader," he says still staring out the window. As an afterthought he adds, "If there comes a time that Eury is no longer Solon, that is."

"Why do you say that? Why do you not want the Solonship?"

He looks to me and I feel I've asked the stupidest question in all of Osteria.

"One, it's treason to even have this discussion. Two, I'm paying tribute for killing my family in a rage so blind I can't even remember it. Third, I'm risking the life of a Herene and possibly her reputation by allowing her to travel with me on a mission to atone for that blood crime. And above all, Iolalus would simply be a better leader."

Despite his serious tone, I laugh.

"What?" he asks, his face torn between humor and uncertainty.

"You should also add that you're terrible in a debate. You can't say Iolalus would be a better leader because he's a better leader."

He returns to looking out the window, his face finally choosing to smile. "Shut up, Iole."

* * *

Pulling into the station of Cedonia City brings to home the worn down state Portaceae has fallen into. Although Cedonia City's primary building materials are wood and stone, the city sparkles with clean windows and swept streets. The squat buildings preferred in this polis stand sturdy despite having been subject to the same earthquakes Portaceae experiences. And the people milling about the station appear well-fed, well-dressed, and happy. We step out of the train into the fresh evening air that flows down the Hooded Mount's glaciers and cools the city in the summer. Walking out from the station it's hard to miss that the roads are even and paved with what looks like new stone.

"To think Portaceae was once like this." Herc looks up at one of the city's few four-story buildings. Unlike such a building in Portaceae, this one doesn't sway in the wind and doesn't have piles of crumbled mortar at its base.

"It did. I often look at the old drawings in the House's library. Portaceae City once put all other cities to shame and the polis was the envy of all of Osteria."

"What changed?"

"They say Hera became distracted."

Herc remains silent a moment. His size draws attention and people give a few curious looks as they pass us, but they don't stare as they would in Portaceae. Even as visitors here, we aren't oddities. Cedonia still has travelers coming to it, whereas people rarely tour Portaceae these days. Teetering buildings, dangerous roads, wasted countryside, and starving children have a nasty habit of driving tourists away.

"How do we find the deer?" Herc asks, pulling his hood up.

"Artemis doesn't keep a house of acolytes like Hera does. She doesn't like the confines of walls. There's a forest that begins at the edge of Cedonia City that serves as her religious center. It's just west of the city if I remember correctly."

"Portaceae has a forest. Forested Park."

"Yes, all the gods love nature and we keep natural areas within the main city of a polis for them. Some, like Poseidon have water areas. Dionysus feels most at home in vineyards, and Demeter in her fields, but most gods default to woods," I say as we walk in the direction of the setting sun.

"I know so little of other places. During my night in jail though, my cellmate told me a great deal of the rest of Osteria. It's not the same as being there, but close."

"I only know what I was taught in training. If Portaceae ever gets on her feet again and out from Eury's chokehold, perhaps her people would be able to travel freely again."

Herc ignores the treasonous comment and we continue through the small city that, unlike most of the other capitals in Osteria, has no defensive wall surrounding it, relying instead on the difficulty of the mountain passes to the south, the river to the north and a strong force of vigiles stationed at Cedonia's eastern and western districts to defend the entire polis.

By the time we enter the forest, the sun is just touching the horizon. Inside the forest, the spacing of the trees allows the dusky hue of sunset through providing us sufficient light to wander far enough into the woods that we can no longer see the city's buildings. Before the sky grows too dark to see, we find a flat clearing suitable for a camp.

"I'm sorry," Herc says.

"Sorry? For what?"

"You shouldn't have to sleep on the ground."

"I don't mind. It's you who needs to rest and recover." I take off my cloak and spread it on the ground. "I should look at your stitches in the morning."

I pull out a couple rolls and some cheese. It takes sitting down to eat to realize how tired I am and I'm asleep, before I can finish my meager meal. Sometime soon after, I feel a blanket being laid over me.

I awake under the warmth Herc's cloak. The forest is dappled with morning sunlight and Herc is already up, arranging a breakfast of rolls and berries.

"I found a patch just over there. Artemis won't mind, will she?" he asks with a grin. "After all, I am stealing snacks from her creatures."

"I think it will be overlooked," I reply as he hands me a roll.

After eating, I check Herc's dressings despite his protests. The sight of scar tissue under the bandages on his leg surprises me.

"You do heal fast. These were dripping blood the other night, now they're closed. I'll need to get the stitches out before they heal into your skin any further."

"I can get them out." He pulls out a dagger and begins cutting at the stitches on his leg where Lerna's tail cut into his calf and ankle. But the blade is too large and he nicks himself in several places.

"Stop. Let me do it before Cecilia kills you herself for ruining her work." With my own small knife I start the slow process of removing all the thread that laces across Herc's back, arms, and legs. I try to remain professional, but am fascinated by being so close to him. To my delight and his amused annoyance, I discover the back of his calf is ticklish—although it does add to the challenge of getting out each piece of the heavy black thread.

As I tease out the stitches, Herc gives me a lesson on hunting. "You'll need to stay quiet and in line with me. Any sound will scare it and if it catches our scent—"

I let him go on as if I hadn't hunted with my father as a girl. I hated hurting the animals, but even as one of Portaceae's wealthier families, we couldn't afford meat until it was so putrid the butcher had to sell it heavily discounted just to get rid of it. We bought it on occasion, but the meat had to be cooked to the point it lost all flavor. One night I fell violently sick after eating the butcher's markdown product. We took all our meat from the wild lands of Portaceae from then on.

After Herc's hunting lecture, we head out. The sun is high in the sky when I find the first tracks. They are clearly deer prints and recent ones at that.

"There," I whisper, pointing to the depression to my left that Herc just walked past.

"We don't know if that's the one we're looking for," he whispers back.

"It is," I insist. He puts his finger to his lips and then points to his ear, leaning down so it is near my lips. "These are twice the size of the other deer tracks I've seen. It has to be Artemis's deer."

"You saw other tracks?" he blurts and then pinches his lips closed.

I nod. "They lead that way. They're fresh. Maybe a day old."

"Perhaps you should go in front," he concedes.

I take the lead and we follow the tracks. I lose them a couple times sending us backtracking to find broken shrub branches, piles of scat, or other telltale deer signs. By evening we still haven't sighted the stag.

"We should stop. We won't have light much longer and this is the first flat area I've seen in some time," I say.

I spread my cloak on the ground and Herc places his next to it. We eat a dinner of rolls—stale and hard by now—and more of the tangy cheese the Herenes make. After a day of trekking, the meal leaves me wanting more. I'm tempted to devour the rest of our food, but instead I fill my belly with several cups of water from the nearby stream.

We lie down on our backs with our heads cradled in our hands. Our elbows touch as we watch the sky rapidly darken through the frilly branches of the firs and pines. My stomach rumbles.

"I'll hunt a rabbit if we're in here another night."

"Could you hunt down some cake as well?" I ask.

"I'll do what I can. Anything to make you happy." The final word fades into a light snore. I lay there listening to his deep, even breaths until I drift off to sleep.

* * *

A light brush against my lips wakes me.

Herc is staring down at me with his dark-lashed, deep blue eyes. He presses his index finger across my lips as he makes a shushing gesture across his own mouth with his other hand. Once he realizes I'm not going to start yelling the moment I wake up, he points to the west. I prop myself up on my elbow and look to where he's indicating.

In the filtered morning sun coming through the trees, the deer's antlers blaze in golden glory. The creature is indeed beautiful and pity swells in me. I fear he'll be injured when we capture him, but I worry more that, once captured, the noble animal will be put on show like the lowliest freak in a group of traveling hucksters. A light breeze flows from his direction, bringing with it his warm, wild scent.

Herc stands slowly. For his size, he moves lightly on his feet as he stalks the deer. He has his bow at the ready, but the arrow he has notched is capped with the cork from our water skin. From the shaft runs a thin line of cord.

The deer flicks its silvery ears backward then forward, pricking them straight up, then pulling them back again. It sniffs the air just as the breeze shifts. Our scent drifts over to him. His large, brown eyes widen and he stamps one bronze hoof. In a flash of white, the stag leaps over the stream.

Herc doesn't pause. As the deer flies through the air, he shoots the arrow. What I thought was a cord, spreads into a net that arcs over the stag then drapes onto him. The animal staggers onto the far shore. Herc runs toward it. The creature struggles, confusedly lashing its head and kicking out with his lean legs. His efforts only make the netting tangle worse around him.

Herc splashes across the stream. The stag collapses letting out a pitiful cry that resonates through the clearing. My heart wrenches at the sound. Herc slows his movements, taking small steps toward the deer and talking quietly to it the entire time. He pulls a strip of cloth from his tunic belt and wraps it around the creature's head to cover its eyes. The animal, its perfect white fur now muddied from the stream bank, calms but its breathing is still panicked.

"Help me get the netting off," Herc says as he strokes the deer whose breaths slow under his touch.

Being careful not to nick the animal underneath, we work to cut the netting away. As I free the final pieces, Herc crouches, grabs the stag to hold the two front legs in one hand and the two hind legs in the other hand. Using a shimmying motion, he hefts the animal up over his head, then stands with the deer resting across his shoulders.

"I hope those permits say we're transporting unusual cargo," Herc says as we cross the stream to the clearing. I can't help but look about. At every moment I expect one of Artemis's arrows to come hurtling in our direction. As quick as I can, I gather our things and take both our travel packs despite Herc's insistence that he can carry them as well as the stag.

As we hurry through the woods, the breeze picks up. The rustling in the tree limbs sounds unnervingly similar to the whoosh of an arrow flying toward its target.

Suddenly, a burning sting shoots through my shoulder blade. I gasp more from the shock than the pain. Herc turns, his face creased either with worry or the strain of carrying the deer.

"What is it?"

"An arrow," I say. My voice is filled with panic and I'm afraid to move, afraid I'll drive the shaft in deeper. "I think I've been shot." Herc comes back, looks me over, and then stands in front of me. I hate the look on his face—everything about it says the injury is serious.

"This is quite bad," he says. I groan. "I'm going to have to repair the fletching on that arrow." And then he starts laughing.

"What?" I ask, confused and uncertain why he finds my approaching death so funny.

"You've got the quiver too low on your shoulder. He nods his head to indicate the strap on my shoulder. "The non-pointy end of one of the arrows has been jabbing into your shoulder blade. You've completely ruined the feathers on it." He starts laughing again. I want to be angry with him for teasing me, but seeing the deer jostling on his shoulders as Herc enjoys himself lightens my mood. I scold him with my eyes that have caught the smile started on my lips, hitch up the quiver, and tell him to get moving.

The weight of the stag doesn't slow him and by midday we can see the city beyond the edge of the wood. I'm washed with amazement that good luck has stayed with us. I'm about to say something when the forest fills with a blinding blaze of red. My first thought is fire, but there is no heat. When my eyes clear, a woman stands before us with bow in hand. Dressed in leggings and a man's short tunic belted at the waist, her clothes are similar to my traveling attire, but whereas I feel awkward out of my usual ankle-length dress, Artemis carries the look with spry confidence. Close-cropped brown hair frames her triangular face that is attractive even though it's flaming with anger.

"How dare you touch Cery." The trees shake with the fury in her voice. In the blink of an eye she flicks an arrow into her bow and aims it at Herc's chest. "Who are you?"

I fall to my knees and bow my head at her soft leather shoes.

"Goddess Artemis, please forgive us."

I glance up. She still points the arrow at Herc's chest, but is watching me with dark brown eyes that remind me of the deer's. I have no doubt that if Herc flinches a hair's breadth, she will be swift enough to shoot the arrow through him without taking her eyes off me. After a moment during which I don't dare breathe, her face changes from rash anger to worried shock.

"Iole," she says in awe as she lowers her weapon and bows low to me. She holds out her hand to help me up. "What are you doing with Cery?"

Herc speaks, "Forgive us, Artemis. We've been sent to capture your stag for Portaceae. If we don't bring it back both of us will die."

She looks to me, a question on her lips, but I give my head the slightest shake to stop the words. She shifts her gaze back to Herc. This time when she looks at him her face brightens with recognition. It makes no sense, she doesn't come into Portaceae and Herc himself said he has never traveled.

"I understand, brother," she says. "If you're willing to take my advice, you'll not only complete this silly chore, but I won't have to lose my Cery." She pets the deer who lets out a purring rumble as she strokes its muzzle.

She tells Herc her plan, but I can only focus on why she has called Herc "brother."

I'm forced back to attention when she touches my arm.

"And you, Iole, give my regards to your mother."

"We don't speak much these days."

"A shame. Family should stick together." She looks to Herc, but he is busy shifting Cery on his shoulders. When she sees him, she seems to remember something and reaches into the satchel slung across her back. From it, she pulls out a golden bridle that she slips onto the stag's head. Holding onto the lead she tells Herc to set the deer down. Once the animal's feet touch the ground, it sways slightly but quickly regains its balance. Artemis hands Herc the lead. "It's a much more dignified way for him to travel."

She hugs the deer who produces another of his purrs. To my shock, she hugs Herc calling him _brother_ again. To me, she kneels and kisses my hand naming me as Herene of the Herenes, then dashes off into her woods without making a sound.

This time we draw more than curious glances as we pass along Cedonia City's streets. People stare at us openly, some drop cups that crash to the sidewalk of the café they've been frequenting, and others hurry back from us probably fearful one of Artemis's arrows is heading our direction at any moment.

Herc refuses to give Cery over to the cargo hold and no one argues with the stern man who leads Artemis's stag like a pet dog. Once we've settled into a free compartment I ask him, "Why did Artemis call you brother?"

"I don't know. I thought it was just a polite term like how the Herenes sometimes call each other sister."

"No, not that I'm aware of."

We sit side by side, as Cery settles onto the bench seat across from us. We ride in silence for a while and I drift off to sleep. When I wake, my head is resting on Herc's shoulder. I jerk up, but he makes no comment.

"Who is your mother? Are you estranged from her?" he asks after a while.

"My mother gave me a choice when I was young. I chose not to live with her and she left me with the people you rescued in the fire. They are my family. I'd rather not discuss it further." I move to sit with Cery and pet him. I remain there staring out the window with the deer resting his head on my lap until it is too dark to see anything outside. As the station gates have already closed for the night, the train wheezes to a full stop outside the walls. It holds there, its engine grumbling as if snoring. At dawn this and the main gates of Portaceae City are cranked open and the train pulls up to the platform.

If I thought the stag drew attention in Cedonia, it was nothing compared to the excitement he brings in Portaceae City. From the station and on up the hill to Eury's home an ever-growing crowd follows us, surrounds us, and precedes us. Iolalus slips in beside us and I hope his presence will be enough to keep Eury's attention away from me. In hindsight, I should have gone back to the House to change, but I'm too caught up in the excitement to not see the task to its completion. I also need my curiosity satisfied as to how Herc plans to pull off getting the deer to his cousin without reigniting Artemis's fury.

We enter the grounds of Eury's estate. Or try to. The main road is crowded with people hoping to catch the end of the show they missed seeing on the screen. Guards shout for them to stay back, allowing only Herc, Cery, Iolalus, and me to squeeze through. In the bright morning light, I can see Eury on the wide, rounded porch at the front of his house which is as large as two of the wings of the House of Hera put together.

_All for two people, a handful of servants and several guards. And he wonders why the people hate him._

Adneta, standing beside Eury, squeals with delight and gives a few rapid claps with her hands when she sees Cery. I stop. I have hold of the lead, and Cery halts when he reaches the end of the tether. Herc looks back.

"I won't let her have this animal," I say thinking of the peacock she'd had dipped in gold. "She's a cruel woman with a vile husband who sees to her every whim without thought of its consequence."

"She won't have him. Didn't you listen to Artemis?"

"I—no, I wasn't paying attention."

"It will be okay," he says taking the stag's lead.

"We're taking those antlers," Adneta says. "Baruch, fetch a hacksaw and get me those antlers."

I grab Herc's arm, pulling him back. He looks down at me, giving me a comforting smile. "Trust me."

We continue forward. Eury has locked Adneta into a slobbering kiss with his hand on her breast. He breaks away when we reach the foot of the stairs that lead up to the porch.

"So, success again," Eury says triumphantly as he lumbers down the stairs to us.

"You gave orders to bring you the golden stag from Cedonia. Here he is."

Herc unclasps the lead. Eury reaches up to grab the ring that hangs down from the bridle, but just as his hand nears it, a high-pitched whistle breaks through the morning air. Cery pricks his ears, turning them forward, back, then to the side. It's as if the sky itself whistles with the sound coming from every direction until finally the call settles to the east. Once the sound has a direction, Cery twists his head at the same moment that Eury closes his hand. Eury misses the bridle's ring by only a fraction. As he lunges for the ring again, the forward motion sends the Solon staggering over his own feet. Unaware of the falter, the stag turns and bounds off toward the sound moving faster than even the House's chariot horses.

"Stop him before he crashes into the hedge," Eury yells as the stag charges toward the high, squared-off laurel hedge that surrounds the property.

Cery continues his race to the barrier. Once to it, he gives only the slightest pause. Then, with a quick twitch of his legs, he bounds over the hedge. Eury's face changes from fear to fury faster than Cery's leap over the laurel.

"Get him. Go get him," he shouts to anyone who will listen.

"He's gone," Herc says. "Back home to Artemis where he belongs."

"You failed," Eury screams. His cheeks flush red. "Guards, take him and the Herene as well since it's quite obvious she was his companion in this. Honestly, Priestess, it's bad enough you make no effort to hide your shameful behavior by showing up in traveling clothes, but you could have at least cleaned the dirt from your face if you intended to fool me." The guards already have Herc's arms in their grip. He doesn't struggle and keeps his head held high. "You will die, Cousin. And this time there will be no delays." Two more guards hover around me, but hesitate. Despite their thuggish appearance, these two must respect the gods and fear to lay hands on a Herene. "Take her, she's only a woman," Eury commands.

At the order, the men grab me, squeezing my arms in their large hands. This stirs Herc who jerks, trying to shake off his guards. Two more guards run up with spears in hand. They pull to a stop in front of us and aim their weapons at the underside of our chins. The tip presses into my skin. I don't breathe for fear of driving the point into my flesh.

A flash blinds me and I hear people hitting the ground. The cold metal point of the spear falls away from my throat. My only thought is the people have revolted. They've fashioned a bomb and detonated it. But as my eyes come into focus, I see her standing behind Eury, her face filled with anger.

I drop to my knees as the others have done. All except for Eury who still stands looking annoyed and confused at our subservience. Does he think we're bowing to him?

"Hera," I mutter.

When I say her name, realization fills Eury's face. He turns to the goddess and stares her in the eye refusing to bow down to her.

"Let them go," she demands.

"No, he failed. He must pay the blood crime punishment in full. And since he took her instead of Iolalus. She pays too."

"They met your demand. You were the one who failed to take control of the deer. It was in your grasp. It is not their fault you let it go."

"But I—"

"Enough. He must be sent on another labor and you will never set men on my daughter again. Ever."

Without looking back to me, my mother disappears in a flash as brilliant as the one that brought her.

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN

### _Hera_

AN EXASPERATED HUFF escapes my lips as I drop into the chaise lounge. Hermes turns from looking out over the valley below Mount Olympus and sends me a questioning glance.

"Problem?" he asks, arching his left eyebrow.

"Where to begin? Eury—" I let out an angry grunt—not a very god-like noise, but I'm too frustrated to even begin to detail my annoyance with Portaceae's Solon. How dare he threaten my daughter? How dare he allow his monsters to touch her?

"You ought to know by now nothing good comes of meddling in human affairs." The wings at his feet and on his helmet flutter to raise him up from the marble floor and fly him over to me. Silly really, it's only ten paces across the temple we Olympians use as a common area. He could have walked the distance, but oh, how Hermes loves to show off his wings. He lands and pushes my legs aside to make room for himself as he sits down beside me.

"If only they _were_ human affairs I was meddling in," I say. "Why can't the Fates just cooperate and let this bastard die?"

"Hercules?"

"Please." I wave my hand as if shooing away a fly. "Don't mention his name. It gives me a headache. And yes, _him_."

"But I thought his father granted him the gift of the gods? If the Fates step in and 'let him die' as you say, he'll only end up here. With you. For eternity," he says with a grin that appears innocent and sardonic at the same time.

"Please, Hermes, you're about to make me retch. Zeus did grant the gift, but I tricked him into a deal that this bastard had to meet certain criteria to earn the gift. Criteria I thought impossible at the time." I drop my head into my hands, annoyed with myself for my own perceived cleverness when I'd devised that deal thirty years ago. After a moment's wallowing, I look up to see Hermes preening the wings on his helmet. He stops when he notices me watching him.

"It's very important the feathers stay clean. Now," he sets the helmet back on his head, "you were saying?"

"Before all this task business, I didn't want him dead. I wanted him to suffer, feel ostracized, lose his place as Solon, live in the dregs of the vigile housing. Tormenting him is such fun—did you see his reaction to his children's death?" I ask with a renewed cheer in my voice. Hermes nods as he gives me a reproachful look with his black eyes. "Oh, not you too." I roll my own eyes and rise from the chaise to cross to where he had been looking out earlier. With its summer beauty of vibrant fields, glittering rivers, and fiery sunset, the view from Mount Olympus tugs at even my cynical heart.

Behind me I hear the flapping of Hermes's twin pair of wings. He lands softly beside me then leans against a column, crossing his arms over his chest and taking on a jaunty aspect as he criticizes me with his eyes.

"It was a bit harsh," he says.

"They were humans. Zeus knows there's enough of them scattered about down there. Why should three tiny mortals matter to us?"

Hermes shrugs. This is obviously an argument he doesn't want to have and neither do I. There is simply no reason for us to be bothered by the deaths of a handful of babies produced by a bastard vigile.

"Oh, enough of them," Hermes says. "You mentioned impossible criteria. Details are in order."

"The criteria was that he could only assume his immortality if he fell in love—truly in love, not just lust, mind you—with an immortal."

"Where is the impossibility in that? Mortals pine for us all the time without our even trying."

"The deal states that the immortal he loves must also fall in love with him. Which is why I need him dead. I fear it may be too late as it is," I whine thinking of Iole risking herself to help the bastard complete his chore in Cedonia.

"Ah, yes, your daughter. But wait, if she breaks her vows, then she'll no longer be immortal. Since he needs an immortal to love him, well, problem solved."

He gives a triumphant nod of his head as if he's just solved all of Osteria's problems. I shoot him a look and he raises both hands, palms facing me as if defending himself from the glare.

"First," I say, "even if Iole were mortal, I do not want her bedding that bastard. The very thought of it makes me ill. Second, I do not want my daughter to lose her immortality. One day she will give up this foolish life-with-the-mortals bit and return to me."

The stipulation of Iole going to live amongst the mortals was that she must serve me. And in that service she is required to stay chaste. If she breaks her Herene vows, if she gives her body to a man, she will have broken our bargain. She will become mortal. And, as with all mortals, when she dies she will make the one-way journey to the realm of Hades's Chasm. If she breaks our bargain she will never be able to return to Mount Olympus.

Hermes does have a point, however. If my daughter and the bastard love each other physically the bastard will never be able to gain his immortality for he would be in love with and loved by a mortal. As delicious as this idea is, I cannot bear the thought of never having my daughter near me again.

"Well, then," Hermes says moving away from his column and putting his arm around my shoulder. "You should ensure he doesn't fall for her, shouldn't you? He's due to be married again, isn't he?"

Marriage. I'd nearly forgotten. All I need is to find a woman that will replace Iole in Herc's heart. Of course, as a mother, I doubt any woman can do that, but surely Herc can be swayed by a lusty woman as easily as any man. I spin around to Hermes and kiss him on the cheek. One of his helmet wings flutters against my ear.

"Hermes, you are a genius. Look at Eury. Look at Zeus. All I need to do is find a wife that will distract the bastard with bedsport to eliminate any thoughts he has of Iole. She will stay immortal. He will remain mortal. It's perfect."

"You're meddling again," Hermes comments.

"Only a tad," I say, too happy with my idea to care about his criticism. "Besides, what difference does it make? He's only a bastard."

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN

### _Eury_

WHILE THE LOT of them remain frozen in awed wonder, my body shakes with fury. How dare Hera interfere in my business? She wouldn't have if not for her daughter. I still can't believe the gorgeous little Herene is Hera's own child, but I put the information away knowing someday I can to use it to my advantage—and hopefully to Hera's sorrow.

But for now, I have to take control of this mess. I've already lost the stag. I've already been upstaged by Hera. I will not let this entire group see me as defeated.

"Cousin," I say as if nothing strange has occurred, "I need meat for my celebration days. A boar. The largest you can find. And bring it dead. To me."

Herc, his face filled with annoyed frustration, refuses to take his eyes off me as if hoping I will back down from his stare. When I don't, he rises from his kneeling position.

"I've only just returned."

"Then you best hurry. My celebration's official kick off begins tomorrow night with a banquet. A roast boar is just the thing for my honored guests and the cooks will need most of the day tomorrow to cook it. Deliver it by sunset. Dead. Again, to me. There will be no loophole for you to jump through on this."

I start back up the stairs to the shade of the porch before realizing I need to make everything clear to these people. I turn back to my cousin. "And this is a blood crime tribute, not a favor. The rules will apply if you fail."

Herc stares at me, his face rigid with his stony glare. His hands clench sending a twitch through the muscles along his arms. I want to stare him down, to show he can't cower me. I try to lock my eyes onto his, but the damned things flick to one side and the other to be certain my guards are still nearby. My cousin looks like a mountain cat ready to pounce. Finally, he breaks his blue glare and looks to the Herene with a softer expression.

"Iole, thank you for assisting me. I would escort you home, but it seems I have a task to complete." Without giving me another glance, he slings his gear over his shoulder and strides off.

Iole picks up her own traveling bag, ready to scurry back to her women, no doubt.

"A moment, Priestess." She locks an icy glare on me that could have rivaled Herc's countenance for its intensity. I stare straight back at her, refusing to let the glance of a woman rattle me regardless of her parentage. After all, what can she possibly do? "It is good you returned, daughter of Hera. We have a budget meeting today or had you forgotten? I know you've been distracted, shall we say, for the past few days. Or perhaps you've been too busy chasing after my cousin to manage the books?"

Iole's defiant face falls into uncertainty. Unsettling her is more enjoyable than I could have imagined. Watching that arrogant assuredness crumble fills my blood and bones with a sense of power I haven't felt in ages.

"I did forget our meeting was for today, but the books are ready." Her hesitant response smells like a bluff, but what does it matter? If the books haven't been kept up it will be to my great advantage. "Maxinia tallies them daily."

"Good," I say cheerily, although in my mind I curse the Herenes' efficiency. "Then if they're ready we can meet in an hour or two." I step back up the porch, wondering briefly when Adneta went inside. "Afterwards you can begin preparations for my celebration festivities. I expect you to attend all the public events and to give Hera's blessing to commemorate my birthday, anniversary, and my ascension to the Solonship."

"I know well enough what my duties entail."

Before I can dismiss her, she spins on her heel and storms across the lawn. I pause on the porch, taking in the wonderful view of her departure.

My time waiting for the meeting is not peaceful. Adneta has stomped up to the bed chamber in a fury of tears and rants over losing the golden stag. I try to console her, but she shrugs me off and turns her back on me.

"You never give me anything I want."

I step up to her, placing my hands on her arms just below the shoulders. Her body tenses as I kiss the base of her neck.

"I promise," I say after placing another kiss on her rigid shoulders, "you have a wonderful gift coming to you."

The money from the Areans is already at work fashioning her a menagerie of gold- and jewel-encrusted animals that will decorate the courtyard. The gifts are to be presented to her at the end of the festivities. I had so wanted to keep it a surprise, but I hate when she's upset.

She whisks around. My hand catches on the sheer sleeve of her dress causing it to slip off her shoulder. She yanks it back into place.

"I heard you earlier. A boar? You think I want a dead pig?"

I step in closer, but she backs away.

"My dear, don't be like that. The lawn out there, do you see it?"

She darts her annoyed gaze out the window and then back to me.

"I know what the lawn looks like."

"But you don't know how it will look in a few days. I swear a stag with golden antlers won't even compare with the treasures that will fill that lawn."

The corners of her mouth flick up briefly, but then drop just as quickly.

"But I have nothing now, do I?"

I can see if I don't deliver something to her, tomorrow's celebration events will be a day of pouting rather than pleasure.

"I could order the workers to deliver a piece of the gift today," I move closer to her as I speak. This time, she doesn't step away. "And then each day bring you a portion at a time." I wrap my arms around my wife, pressing myself against her. "You can watch it grow," I whisper in her ear as I lift her leg up. She wraps the limb around my hip. I shove my tunic aside as I press her up against the wall for support. Several hours later, I pull myself away from our bed and climb into my carriage.

* * *

When I arrive at the House of Hera, a hobbled hag guides me to the stairs that will take me to Iole's office—an expansive room situated on the top story of the rear of the main building. Three bloody flights of stairs. What is it with these women to make me do so much climbing?

Iole answers my knock with a pinched expression on her face. I can tell she's on the edge of berating me for being so late. I ignore the look she's giving me and step through the threshold, not waiting for her to invite me in. I mop my brow as I scan the room. Books and ledgers fill every niche along the walls and sprawl open on tables. Some of these will contain the treasury tallies, others the records of births and marriages, while still others hold contracts and the lists of laws. Each shelf, each leather cover draws a scowl deeper onto my face. If knowledge truly is power, the Herenes keeping so much information on these shelves is an affront to me. It belongs in the hands of the Solon.

A mountain of a woman sits at a table flicking the nuts of an abacus back and forth as she jots down numbers into a book.

"Maxinia," Iole says, shutting the door behind me, "could you bring me the register we were going over before I left?"

The chair scrapes against the floor as Maxinia backs away from the table to stand.

_Gods, she must be half giant._

The woman stands tall enough to reach even the highest shelves of the vaulted room. Without taking a moment to search for what she needs, she pulls a small leather-bound book from a file box.

"I'll leave you," she says as she hands over the book. She fires me a harsh look while nodding a curt greeting to me. The Herenes have never bowed to the Solon—yet another thorn in my paw.

"No, please, continue your work. This won't take long," Iole says as she strides over to a large oak desk. She gestures to a chair in front of it. "You may sit."

I lower myself into the chair, glad to be off my feet, but Iole remains standing. She holds the book open resting it on one palm as she flips through the yellowed pages with her other hand. I'm unsure if she's actually looking for something or if she's merely wasting time to put me in my place for my tardiness. As I wait for the show to end, I shift in the chair trying to find a comfortable position, but the straight wooden back bites into me regardless of how I arrange myself. The thing creaks under my weight and I can only imagine the delight it would give Iole and her giantess to see the seat collapse under me. I force myself to sit still.

After several moments, she stops her flicking and flipping, and slaps the book down on the desk in front of me. On the page are three columns neatly lined in black with various sums along their length. I carefully lean forward to examine the ledger.

"Numbers, words. What is it I'm supposed to be looking at?"

"That," she says stabbing the ledger with her finger. I look to where the slim, white digit points. The zero in the ledger means nothing to me.

"You're the keeper of the treasury. How am I supposed to interpret this?"

"This should read five thousand plus whatever you earned from the sale of Lerna's blood. Rumor places it around two million drachars. Instead, as you can see, it reads zero."

Of course it reads zero. Adneta has her lovely new necklace. Some of the two million has gone to restock my wine cellars with the finest Illamos Valley vintages. A good portion is building Adneta her menagerie. And I can't _not_ spend a lavish sum on my celebrations—it would disappoint the people too greatly to not have the promised days of festivities.

"I saw no point in entering the amounts. Busy as you say you are, I thought you'd be happy I saved you the extra work."

"Tallies of all income and expenses are supposed to be sent to my office by sunset daily so I can manage the books, see where the money is going, and try to get this polis out of its financial hole. Instead, you only dig it in deeper."

"Perhaps you should talk to your mother about that. You do recall it is the duty of a polis's patron god to ensure the land remains fertile and productive, don't you? Hera's the one who hasn't seen to our bounty. She's the one who has neglected the land and populated it with so many vile creatures. So many times I wished I'd been born to another polis, one where the gods cared about more than their own interests." I cross my arms indignantly over my chest. The motion sends the chair wobbling. I jerk at the movement, which brings a flicker of a smile to the Herene's face.

"Do not speak ill of Hera in this house. Yes, she has been remiss, but you have, or rather Herc has obtained great sums for Portaceae. They need to be entered. We need to repair—"

"Ugh, I know. I'll get to it, but tomorrow is my anniversary, my coronation day, my birthday. All those things must be celebrated and you yourself said the people need entertainment." Just then a loud cheer roars from outside sending a jolt of fear through me. Iole turns to peer out the window behind her. My worry eases as I admire her rear view—the linen dress shows it off much better than her traveling clothes had. "My festivities will be entertaining."

My words spin her around.

"Two million drachars worth of entertainment?"

"I promise I will see to it the remainder gets into your little book." I pat the open pages and then close the ledger. "And then all will be well."

"That money had better find its way there."

From outside comes the noise of an excited crowd. Cheers and hoots and stamping feet are approaching along the Hera Way. Despite the appetite the Herene has stirred in me, my stomach drops.

This is it. This is the revolt.

My eyes dart to the doorway. How long do I have? I can't remain in this office blathering about numbers and calculations. If I can dash down the stairs, I'll be to my carriage in two heartbeats. It's time I get back to my villa where doors can be barred and guards can defend me.

An image of Iole closing the door flashes through my head. The door to this office, locked and blocking my escape. A trap. The Herene has set a trap. The clever bitch. My heart thuds in my ears, but I refuse to let the priestess see my fear.

"Yes, yes." I wave my hand dismissively as I ease myself out of the chair that creaks with the change in pressure. "Now, I must be off. Things to plan." I scuttle toward the door wondering if the giantess will stop me.

Iole hurries to the door. She's going to block it. But she's small, I can shove her aside as easily as pushing a child out of my way. It's the giantess that draws my eye. She remains in her seat, the abacus clacking away. How quick is she? I wonder.

Iole gets to the door just as I do. I'm about ready to lay my hands on her when she turns the knob and holds the door open for me. Seeing the Herenes aren't the threat, I pause at the threshold.

"You do flatter yourself, you know. Despite his little problem he got into with his children, my cousin is moral to a fault. He wouldn't dare defile a Herene so you might as well look to other steeds if you want ridden."

"Yes, your cousin honors the gods, whereas you, I think you would sell Hera to the Middish if it bought your wife a new trinket."

Just then Iolalus appears at the top of the stairs. Damn, why did I take the time to taunt the Herene?

"Iole—" He pauses when he sees me. "There's something going on outside."

Another rumbling roar echoes through the hall. The sound is just outside.

_Gods I need out of this place. _

"We're done here," I say. I shove my way past my red-haired cousin and race to the staircase. Halfway down, the noise of the people roars again so close that they must be just outside the House's walls. From the top of the stairwell, come the rhythmic sounds of people jogging down the steps after me. My legs tremble and I grip the railing to keep from falling over my own feet.

The stairs spit me out into the central courtyard and several old crones turn away from fussing with the peacocks to look at me with their judgmental eyes. The peacocks, disturbed by the noises in the street, are squawking and flapping their wings in annoyance. I move as fast as I can to the gate hoping Baruch is in his driver's seat and ready to drive the horses as fast as they can move.

I see Baruch still parked in front of the Peacock Gate. I only need to get to the gate. And then to the safety of my carriage.

In the few steps it takes me to cross the courtyard, people have crowded in front of the complex and block the way to the carriage. I halt, sucking in panicked breaths. From behind me comes the crunching sound of feet on pea gravel. I don't need to look back. It will be the Herene and Iolalus and who knows how many others closing in on me. From front and back, my escape is barred.

The people cackle with laughter when they see me. The noise sets the peacocks screeching more loudly. Iole and Iolalus run past me, stopping at the edge of the crowd. Iolalus has his hand at his belt ready to draw his short sword. This is it. They will kill me. Why did I not come with my guards?

"Back," Iole yells. "What is this madness?"

The crowd quiets and draws back several paces. None of them that I can see are carrying weapons. None seems ready to attack. Actually, they look amused. Some of my tension eases, but my hands and legs still shake.

A swarm gathers around my carriage with others peering over their shoulders trying to catch a glimpse of something inside. Baruch sits in the driver's seat, reins in hand with a bemused expression on his lips. I press through.

"What are they doing to my carriage? Baruch, get them away from there." I squeeze forward and fling open the carriage door. The sight makes my stomach sink. The door at the far side gapes open. Herc peers through the opening at me. "My carriage. What have you done?"

"Completed my task," Herc replies and seems unable or unwilling to suppress a satisfied grin.

There, in my carriage, my beautiful carriage, in one of the leather seats that are suppler than Adneta's breasts sprawls a dead boar. The beast is so big its body sags over the bench. Blood drizzles from its neck onto the floor and one of its tusks pierces the leather upholstery.

"This is an outrage."

"You said to deliver it to you. Dead. You weren't home so I came here."

"How? This is impossible. You took this from a butcher."

"No, I just knew where to look. Ask Iolalus, the vigiles have been getting reports of a boar in Forested Park for months. We'd narrowed down where his den was and had set up a group to go after it. It was what I was supposed to do the day—" He stops his words abruptly.

"The day you killed your children, you mean to say." I speak loudly to remind the adoring crowd what a monster they've been cheering. "My nieces and nephew are dead because of this blood crimer you find so amusing."

"Yes," Herc says through gritted teeth. "I caught the boar off guard. Wounded it. Cut its throat."

"You're good at killing, aren't you? There has been enough of a show from you. From now on there will be no feed, no displays in the arena of your tribute for your despicable crime. Anyone caught celebrating this blood crimer will be tried for crimes against the polis."

The crowd grumbles. A group to my left boos.

"What's wrong with you people? We will have festivities starting tomorrow in my honor. Me, your Solon, not some blood crimer. Now, clear out. If you worked instead of loitering around perhaps Portaceae wouldn't be in the state it's in." The crowd drifts back and thins out in little time. "As for you," I say to Herc, "I don't want you anywhere near the city tomorrow. I want the people to remember who their leader is and to celebrate me, not a piece of filth like you."

Herc purses his lips and looks away. After several deep breaths, he focuses his eyes back on me.

"To where?" he asks with steely calm.

To where? I haven't thought of a labor. I expected him to die before he ever returned from Cedonia. The boar had been a whim brought about by discussing a menu with the chefs who had dared to question my desire to have a roasted pig for the private party that will be held at the villa tomorrow evening for my hand-picked guests.

I rack my brain. I can't keep giving him things that bring him glory and make him seem even more the hero. He needs a low task, a demeaning task, a task that will keep him out of my sight. I hear a plop from the direction of my carriage horses. A glow washes over me at my cleverness.

"The stables."

"Stables?" he asks.

"To the south. The stables of the Augean District. The governor is too old or too feeble to clean them himself and the shit has piled up for years. He's asked for help, but what can I do about the mess? You'll clean them. I'll need a written note from Governor Augeus himself stating the task has been completed to his satisfaction. And I hear he is a hard man to please."

"How long?"

"When I wake the day after tomorrow I expect that note in my hands. Send it by messenger. A human messenger."

I pull myself up to the driver's seat next to Baruch. By the time we return to the villa, I'm certain my nostrils will be permanently embedded with the stench of dead boar.

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN

### _Herc_

### __

TURNING AWAY FROM the sight of Eury rolling away, I leave Iolalus chatting with a group of people and stride into the courtyard heading toward the staircase in the far corner that leads to the guest rooms. A few steps in, a peacock struts up to me. I reach out tentatively, afraid of another bite from the sharp beak. Moving my hand slowly, I stroke the bird's head, but remain tensed and ready to yank my hand back at the slightest hint of an attack.

"You're winning them over," Iole says, startling me and forcing me to jerk my hand away from the bird. The sudden motion startles the peacock. He squawks at me, then struts just out of my reach. Iole laughs at the animal. Gods, she is beautiful and her smile only heightens her beauty. A wisp of hair has snuck out from her braid and it takes every measure of my willpower not to brush it from her cheek.

Although a few days of rest in the House of Hera's comforts appeal to my aching wounds, part of me welcomes Eury's urgency. I can't love Iole. As Artemis said, she is the Herene of the Herenes. Hera's daughter. No wonder she's so lovely. Being around Iole would be anguish and the temptation to touch her, to feel her close to me—what if I couldn't control myself? What if I lost my mind again and hurt her? I would hope to be gentle, but I've already proven what manner of monstrosity rests within me. In the woods of Cedonia, I had been too focused on the task to let these thoughts plague me, but now with Iole gazing at me with her gold-flecked eyes and perfect face, the worries flood in on me.

The bird sidles up to me again and this time it allows me to pet its head. I marvel at the smooth, fragile feel of it.

And if I dare to love her, even if I don't become the monster I fear slumbers inside of me, she will die. The punishment for a Herene who breaks her vow of celibacy is death. For defiling a Herene, I will die too of course, but I've already prepared for that journey once and I still haven't fully unpacked. A dark portion of my mind doubts I will survive these trials of Eury's, but I refuse to allow anyone else I care for to die because of my actions. Not Iolalus, and definitely not Iole.

The peacock brushes its cheeks along my hand, tempting me to pet it once more, but before I can, it scurries off scattering pebbles in its wake.

"I need to get ready. I'll have to get an early start tomorrow." I start to turn away, but Iole touches my arm with fingers that feel as smooth and fragile as the peacock's head. I swear she must have some power from her mother. How else could that single, light touch stop me in my tracks?

"I should have told you about my mother when you asked."

"It's not important," I say. I want to imply that it wouldn't matter if she were a foundling—one of the babies abandoned in the agora when parents couldn't afford to keep it—but the words come out sounding harsher, more dismissive than I mean them to.

The hurt look that crosses her face makes me want to hold her and I'm filled with an overwhelming wish that we hadn't returned to Portaceae. Surely the daughter of Hera could seek refuge in another polis and see to it that Iolalus joins us safely. But, instead of comforting her, I stand there, frozen as she bites her lip until she finally gives a decisive nod that seems just as indifferent as my words.

"Your meal will be sent up and food prepared for your trip. Good luck."

Her words are punctuated by a sharp turn of her heel and a rapid march away from me to the kitchens. I watch until she enters the building. With my attention distracted, the peacock, perhaps sensing an opportunity, struts back to me, gives my finger a nip, and then scuttles away with a series of squawks that sound too much like vindictive laughter.

I disappear into my room and devour the stew and fresh brown bread as soon as they arrive. Iolalus and I plan our routes with maps he's borrowed from the Herene library, marking out what areas have been reported to be thick with bandits versus where the vigiles are to be patrolling tomorrow. Although exhausted from the past several days, I get little rest through the night. Each time I fall to sleep, haunting dreams of my children asking me "Why?" wake me. In the final dream before I give up on sleep, it's Iole bloodied and bruised and clearly no longer alive asking me the same question as peacocks rip my hands to pieces.

Thankfully I have Iolalus to distract me from my thoughts in the morning.

"I can't believe you put it in the carriage," he says again as we gather the traveling food Iole has sent up. The rolls remind me of my time in Cedonia with Iole and I can't help but smile at them even though I know they will be hard as stones by tomorrow. Once we've packed, Iolalus slings his quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

"Leave them. They won't be needed for this."

"They might." He sticks his short sword in the scabbard at his belt and, shooting me an amused yet defiant look, picks up his bow.

"What? Do you think we're going to poison the shit out of the stables?" I ask as I fill a water skin from the jug on my nightstand.

"You taught me it's best to be prepared. The southern roads aren't safe and without being able to ride our way out of trouble I want all the protection I can get."

"What do you mean? Why can't we ride?"

"No horses and no rail passes. We're on foot for this one."

"Hera's ass!" I crush the water skin as I curse, sending water shooting up and onto the floor. "Why can't we use the horses? There's ten of them in the stable. The Herenes can't miss a couple of them for a day or two."

"It's not the Herenes," Iolalus says tossing me a towel to dry the floor with and then taking the skin to refill it. "It's our cousin. He needs extra horses to pull carts full of flowers for his celebratory parade. He knows the Herene horses are some of the best in Portaceae and won't take anything less. I don't doubt they all end up in his stables by the end of this week with some excuse that he's owed a birthday present from the Herenes."

"Gods, I'd rather have to shovel shit than to watch his display of his arrogance. But that settles it—no arrows. They'll just be one more thing to carry."

I hang the wet towel over the window railing, then grab my travel bag and hitch it onto my shoulders leaving my quiver and bow by my bed stand. As I'm about to shut the door, Iolalus darts back in, snatches up the weapons, and with a smile that dares me to challenge him, throws them over his shoulder alongside his.

Dawn is trying to break through a thin but stubborn layer of clouds as we depart from the House of Hera. Inside the Peacock Gate, all is quiet, but outside the complex, Portaceae City is already busy preparing for Eury's festivities. Bright purple banners crisscross the streets, women pluck at late summer roses and toss the petals in bags for strewing during the parade, and vendors are jostling their carts for prime positions on the parade route.

We leave the confines of the city walls and hike along the Osterian Road—the main road that extends from Vancuse in the north, crosses the Great Col River that flows through Portaceae, follows the line of the Illamos Valley south, and then cuts east to Bendria before continuing south again. Few Osterians have travelled the length of the Osterian Road, which is reported to go into the Califf Lands far to the south. It's simply too dangerous. Beyond Bendria is wild land that is said to be populated with all manner of beasts from satyrs to chimeras. These creatures roam throughout Osteria, but generally stay clear of the cities and the populated districts of the poli. Outside of these areas however, we are in their territory. Territory they defend to the death.

It feels strange not to be under the camera's eye. We sent word to Altair yesterday evening telling him of the ban on the feed. A message came back in shaky handwriting that the illness his wife had been suffering from had worsened. At the end, after his signature and almost as an afterthought, or a wish that writing it might make it so, he added that he hoped he got his children to his mother's house in time for them not to catch his wife's sickness. Iolalus had suggested going to him this morning, but the hour was too early and, since we need to travel in the light of day, we couldn't linger waiting for the time to be right for paying a social call. Instead, we left word with the Herene medics to check in on Altair as early as they could.

Even without the camera, Iolalus and I both have a sense of being watched. We check behind us at every rustle of dry leaves in the breeze, every scurry of a squirrel dashing away with some nutty treasure, and every caw of an angry crow. As vigiles, we know the hills are filled with thieves, and have little doubt they are watching our progress now. More than once, the hairs on my neck prick up for no reason I can perceive.

"The centaurs are supposed to be patrolling through here today," Iolalus remarks.

"Let's hope so." The thin, high clouds spread a gauzy blanket over the sky making it difficult to judge the exact position of the sun and impossible to tell how long we've been traveling. The only indication of time is the increased brightness of the high clouds signaling it might be close to midday.

Dust from the road covers our feet and legs and I almost wish the clouds would thicken and spill over with rain to settle the dirt that puffs up with each step. "Gods I wish I knew how long we've been walking," I complain. "What's happened to the mile markers?"

Every mile on the Osterian Road is supposed to be marked with a wooden or stone post indicating the distance from the Road's starting point in Vancuse. I've yet to see one since we'd lost sight of Portaceae City.

"The centaurs that last patrolled said they'd seen some wooden markers in the remains of a campfire. Other patrols have seen the stone ones used to shore up walls."

Just as I'm about to curse, a breeze kicks up more dirt, and brings with it a foul stench that makes me grimace.

"Mile markers or not, at least now we know we're close," Iolalus says as he claps a hand over his mouth and nose.

Despite being prime farm land, all the area of the Augean District appears abandoned. Creaking houses look as if one gust might topple them over and large ghosts of faded red barns haunt overgrown plots of land. Weeds invade fields that still hold the gnarled trunks of grape vines that have gone wild. The tall framework structures for hop plants have lost their supporting twine and now resemble the legs of emaciated giants.

With no money coming in from rents or crops, Augeus—the governor who oversees this district of Portaceae and collects its taxes—must be struggling. The people that lived here, where have they gone? Into Portaceae City to find work? They would have quickly learned there is none. Or have they become the thieves that the centaurs now track on their patrols?

The sight of the land sends a surge of disgrace and pity through me. On my twelfth birthday, the last birthday he was alive to celebrate with me, my grandfather gave me a taste of Portacean wine. Wine from the very vineyards that now stand withered and weedy. Even as a boy, I could taste the quality of the drink and the memory of the flavor still teases my tongue. He said Portacean wine was second only to that produced in Illamos Valley. But no longer.

"Cheery place," Iolalus says through the cloth he's tied over the lower half of his face. His eyes, like mine, water from the fumes that grow stronger with every step.

"Every one of these farms used to teem with people and workers," I say. "Granddad said Portaceae was nearly self-sufficient with the food coming off these lands. And what we didn't grow, we could trade for. It's part of what made Portaceae one of the richest poli of Osteria. When I served my first patrol through here, I remember him telling me about it and thought it was just another one of his stories."

"Certainly seems like a tale from the look of this place. Who would want to live here? Who _could_ live here?"

"If we can get this stench out of here maybe people will return."

"That's a big if. We can't even see these stables and I'm ready to turn back. I don't see how we can do this. Not in a single day."

"We don't have much choice," I say suddenly worried for Iolalus. He is normally upbeat about any undertaking, whether it's helping ducklings out of a sewer grate or taking on a water serpent. If he thinks we can't do this—

I stop my line of thinking. I will send Iolalus away before I let him be sent under. If he can get to the Califf Lands or the Middens, he will be out of the Osterian gods' view and will be free of Osterian law. I won't let him suffer punishment for my failure.

Coming around a bend, we spot a sprawling series of houses on a high hill. At the foot of the hill stands a vast stable nearly the size of Eury's villa. All around it, looking like extensions of the hill itself, are piles of brown muck. With the clouds cooling the air, the piles steam in wispy puffs that catch the wind and arc in our direction.

"How can anyone live here?" Iolalus asks through gasping coughs.

"Perhaps they're blessed by the gods with no sense of smell."

The closer we get, the worse it smells until finally it seems like there's never been fresh air in the world. The ground squishes under our boots and I try to put out of my mind that we're walking in the dung that has spilled out of the stables over the years. At the foot of the hill, the piles of manure stand taller than Iolalus and I put together. From within the stables come the sounds of disgruntled horses snorting and banging against their stalls.

"I pray to Hera this isn't the last thing I see or smell," Iolalus complains.

As we mount the grassy hill, I realize I was wrong in my assessment. The structures at the top of the hill aren't houses but a collection of water tanks. The only house on the hill sits below and to the side of the tanks that, like the water tower at the House of Hera, collect rain during Portaceae's wet season. The stored water can then be gravity fed to any home situated below the tanks to provide the residents the luxury of running water. With their immense size, even now, well into the dry summer of Portaceae, the tanks should be filled to near capacity. Governor Augeus, who I assume owns this spread, has enough water for hundreds of homes and could be selling it if anyone lived in the area. He would have what we called water wealth on top of the rents from the homes and farms in his district. By all means, Augeus should be as rich as the Solon himself.

We haven't yet stepped up to the house's porch when a stocky man with a round, jowly face whips the door open. A bulldog appears at his side and lets out a gravelly bark.

"Get off my land," the man orders. "You've no business here."

"Careful, I think he might bite," Iolalus says to me under his breath. I bite my lip to keep an amused smile at bay. The man does bear a striking similarity to the dog beside him. He seems too old to do much damage, but is clearly without fear to threaten two full-grown men in their prime. I pull down my face covering and hold up my hands to show I mean no harm.

"Hera protect Portaceae," I say in greeting.

"Bah." The man spits on the step in front of him.

"He's rabid," Iolalus whispers. I jab him with my elbow to silence him.

"We've come to clean your stables," I say.

"Why?"

His question throws me. What does he mean, _Why_? Who wouldn't want this muck cleaned? I look to the robe he wears over his grey tunic. The silk is edged in gold, but frayed strings bristle out along the sleeves and hem. If this is Augeus, clean land could make him a true governor again, and a wealthy one at that, not a disheveled hermit on a hill surrounded by waste.

"Because if you get those stables cleaned you could rent out the farms below and sell your water to the residents," I say glancing up at the massive tanks.

He stands more erect and the menacing look on his face relaxes into curiosity. His dog plops down on the step and begins licking its paw. A younger man, also with a stocky build but with a head full of short black curls, runs from the side of the house. He stops several steps away, assessing us with a quick look.

"Father, is everything okay? Who are you?"

"They've come to clean the stables," the old man says haughtily.

"Good luck with that," the younger man scoffs with a grin on his face. "What sort of payment do you expect?"

"You have horses in the stables. I'd like to take a few."

"Take what you want," the old man says. "They're nothing but trouble those creatures." He pauses and scans us with a calculating expression. "But you only get payment if you clean the stables of _all_ the muck. Inside and out." He lets out a cackle that grates on my nerves. The dog joins in with yipping howls.

The man's son looks uneasy. "Father, go inside." The old man flicks a dismissive wave at us and shoos the dog in the house before slamming the door behind him. "This way."

The son leads us around the side of the house to a shed. "Shovels and other tools are in here, but you won't be able to do this. No one has. For years Father offered free land, free water, and no one has been able to make a dent in the filth. By the time I was old enough to try, everyone was gone and I gave up my efforts after a year or two. It's impossible. It just keeps coming." He slaps the side of the shed in frustration, but gives us an agreeable smile. "Good luck, though."

I peer inside the shed. Not seeing what I'm after, I ask, "Do you have a sledgehammer?"

"I know what you're thinking," the man says with a laugh. "But you can't bludgeon the things to death. They're immortal. Can you believe it? A gift from that damned Hera. That's right. Damn you, you menacing wench of a goddess." He shakes a fist at the sky, then looks back to us with a satisfied grin on his face. "It's the only way they can survive in their own filth. Any other animal would be dead of disease. Not these foul steeds. But if you want to take some frustrations out when those shovels get you nowhere, sledgehammers are just there on the far wall."

He indicates the spot he means, then leaves us to gather our tools.

"Are you planning on bludgeoning them?" Iolalus asks.

"Not quite. Let's get to work."

Iolalus grabs a shovel from the shed whose walls and shelves are littered with tools. He then starts down the hill toward the stables.

"Where are you off to?" I ask.

"Stables. Down there. Remember? The things we need to clean to keep from being buried alive. Living," he says with a shrug, "it's a nasty habit I've gotten used to."

"We're not going to work down there." I step over scythes and rakes to get to the back of the shed. The first sledgehammer I select is a light, flimsy thing, but the second has a sturdy, balanced heft to it. "Put that down and follow me."

We leave our bags and weapons in the shed and trudge further up the hill to the water tanks. Leaving the sledgehammer with Iolalus, I climb up the ladder fixed onto the outer wall of the largest of the tanks. At the top, I position myself to look directly down the hill to the stables. From the foot of hill spreads a brown lake of horse filth. The muck is so deep it nearly covers the roof of one of the farm houses beyond Augeus's property.

"Place the hammer directly below where I stand," I shout down to Iolalus. "Just rest it up against the side."

Iolalus, looking tiny from the height of the tank, does as I ask and I climb back down.

"Stand well back," I say.

Iolalus moves back and, standing with the right side of my body angled toward the tank, I lift the hammer up over my left shoulder. With every muscle of my upper body, I whip the hammer around, slamming it into the tank as near to the ground as possible.

The paint chips away, but the swing hasn't made a single crack in the thick wall.

"He's going to curse you to the Chasm of Hades for doing this," Iolalus says peering around from his position. "Shouldn't we get the horses out?"

"Cousin," I say just as the breeze shifts sending a waft of putrid air into my face, "this is the Chasm. And I would remove them if they were mortal, but if they've survived their own filth for this long, a little water won't hurt them."

I grunt and ready the hammer again. Using the full force of my body, I whirl around smashing the tool into the same spot where the paint has chipped. A satisfied smile crosses my face when I notice a hairline crack running through the bare spot on the tank's wall. I set down the hammer to loosen my muscles and catch my breath to prepare for the next swing.

My breath recovered, I wipe my hands and lift the hammer again. A grunt hurls from my throat as I swing around again.

The wall spills a few crumbles of concrete and the crack deepens, but I've seen worse coming from the mortar work on the buildings of Portaceae City.

I inhale deeply, shift my shoulders and let all tension go from my back. Then, tensing as tightly as I can, I swing up nearly sending the sledgehammer into my own spine before forcing it back around in a whooshing arc.

The wall explodes in a flurry of stone. I drop the hammer and grab hold of the ladder as a torrent of water gushes forth. The pressure behind the hole bursts apart the crack sending a full river of water stampeding down the side of the hill. It slams into the stable, swirling around the structure as horses burst into a cacophony of panicked whinnies. The piles around the stable are swept away and spread out into the fields beyond. Each moment the water flows through the stables, the run off becomes clearer.

As the tank dribbles its last rivulet, Iolalus and I hurry down the hill staying clear of the sodden swath the water has created. Inside, the stables are wet but clean. With a pair of push brooms, we sweep out the water leaving behind a marble floor that gleams with a white sheen.

"They're beautiful," Iolalus says looking in the stalls at the disgruntled horses.

We pull the animals out one by one and replace their bedding with clean, dry hay from the high loft of the stable. They truly are gorgeous animals that must be from Astorian stock. Only the people of Poseidon's polis can breed horses so fine. We walk back and forth having a terrible time deciding which to keep for ourselves.

I spot a graceful mare of pure white with a mane that looks as if silver strands have been woven through. Its eyes are a mix of green and gold. The animal, now mollified that she is clean and dry, nuzzles my hand tempting me to choose her, but it's a well-muscled, chestnut stallion that suits me best. Iolalus settles on a nimble, black steed that shines like obsidian.

We leave the stables and head back up the hill with the setting sun at our backs. Once to the top, the old man and his dog storm out the main door. His face is flushed and wrinkled with fury.

"My tank. We'll die."

"You have several others," I say. "Surely that's more than enough water for two people. That shed is well-stocked with equipment and building supplies. Your son will be able to repair the tank before the autumn rains come."

"He's right, Father," the son says, poking his head over the old man's shoulder. "It won't take long and with the smell gone, the people will come back. Now let them inside to have some refreshments. We've been terrible hosts."

The old man steps aside but both he and his dog scowl at me and Iolalus as we pass into the house. We seat ourselves at a wide oak table and the son places two large tankards of beer in front of us.

"I brew it myself. The hop plants have gone wild below the hill and no one is willing to come harvest them."

"That should change," I say taking a drink of the deliciously bitter brew. "I'm Herc and this is my cousin Iolalus."

"Phylos." The younger man holds out his hand to me and then to Iolalus to shake. "And that's my father, Stephos Augeus."

Some vague memory comes to my head. Of course, I know the name from his being governor of the Augea region, but something else nags at me. Something familiar in the old man's face I hadn't noticed earlier.

"Why do I know that name? Beside your position here, that is."

"My aunt, my father's sister, worked as a midwife in Portaceae," the son offers.

"Yes," I clap my hand on the table and the dog gives a sharp bark. "How could I have not realized? You have her eyes, the same shaped face. She was a close friend of my mother's. She'd give me sweets as a child. Your Aunt Agalia saw me into this world."

"Yes, well," Stephos interrupts, "as a reward for her seeing you safely birthed, Hera gave us the gift of these fine shit bearers. Beautiful animals, but foul. If all their shit isn't cleared out within a day, they add to it tenfold. Can't even set 'em free. Oh, no, you can't deny a present from the gods or you'll be cursed 'til the end of your days. It's been a lovely gift to be sure." His face appears as if his tankard of beer is ten times as bitter as ours.

"You should be able to keep up with the chore now. When people return to the area, you can hire workers to keep the stalls cleaned.

"Bah," the old man blurts before slurping down another mouthful of ale.

"We're glad to take the chestnut and the black off your hands," Iolalus says. "Stalls sixty-four and seventy-three."

"And the silver from nine," I add.

Just then someone pounds on the front door setting the bulldog into a round of protective barking.

"Go see who it is," Stephos orders his son. When Phylos leaves the room, Stephos fixes his rheumy eyes on us as he slides his son's mug over toward him and hovers over its contents. Phylos returns with a sealed square of parchment. Stephos grabs for the letter, but Phylos holds it up out of the old man's reach.

"It's not for you," he says as he places the letter in front of me. On the front pressed into a dollop of red wax is an emblem of a peacock with a crown on its head. I break it open and frown at the contents.

"That's the seal of the Solon," Stephos spits the words and the dog at his feet growls. "So, you work for him. In that case, you're not getting any of my horses. I pay enough taxes, I'm not handing over good horse flesh too."

"We had a deal," Iolalus argues.

The old man huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. "It's not as if I expected you to complete the job. Besides, one can't give away a gift from the gods."

"Father, you made a promise. I witnessed it." Phylos takes his cup from the scowling old man.

"How dare you speak against me? I rule this land."

At this Phylos slams the tankard back onto the table sending ale sloshing up over its rim. "Enough. I've had enough of your pretend leadership. I manage the land more than you ever did. I keep it from completely overgrowing, I get us food. I ride into the city and risk my neck in the hills to try to win our farmers and tenants back. What do you do? Sit up here drinking my ale and griping about the state of things. If these men to whom we promised payment request it, we will honor that promise. Or do you have no honor left?"

The old man refuses to look at his son. His lower lip juts out into a pout that closely resembles his bulldog's underbite. He stands up and yanks our tankards off the table.

"Fine, but they won't have any more of our ale. We didn't promise that."

I stand, taking the letter in my hand. "We've overstayed anyway. Thank you for your hospitality," I say to Phylos as I shake his hand. To Stephos I offer a curt goodbye. He flicks his hand at us as if ridding himself of a persistent mosquito. Phylos walks us out.

"I'm sorry for my father," he says as we gather our things from beside the shed. The sun is already behind the hills to the west. I'm not looking forward to traveling in the dark, not on roads that I know to be populated with bandits. But, there will be no welcome stay in this house and I hope the horses will be fast enough to see us past any danger.

"It's forgotten," I say. "I would ask a favor of you though."

"Anything."

"We need a letter saying we completed our work sent to the Solon. Somehow I don't think your father will agree to writing it. Can you write the message and have it delivered by morning?" I then add, "Our lives depend on it."

Phylos notes the gravity of my tone and nods his head.

"I sent the messenger down to the stables to refresh his horse. As it's too late to put a lone boy on the Osterian Road, he'll stay the night in our old servants' quarters. I'll ensure he departs at dawn with my message in his hand. Now, shall we go get your horses?"

"But why shouldn't we take the message? Aren't we heading back to Portaceae City?" Iolalus asks as we follow Phylos down the hill.

"It appears not," I say holding up the letter.

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

### _Iolalus_

"NOT ANOTHER ONE," I say. I had hoped we'd be back to the House of Hera tonight, or at least by early morning. While Herc and Iole had been away, Maxinia described to me the menu the kitchen had planned for their own festivities during Eury's celebration days and I've been craving roast chicken, herb-infused wild rice, and late summer strawberry pie ever since we left the city. With another task thrust upon us, I know I'll be stuck with stale rolls and hard cheese, both of which have probably taken on the scent of horse dung by now.

"I'm afraid so. He wants us to take care of the Malion Swamp birds."

"That's half a day from here," I complain.

Phylos finds the messenger by a water trough and tells him where he can leave his horse and which rooms he can stay in up at the house. Inside the stables there's still a slight odor, but after a few dry days I'm certain it will clear out.

"What are these birds?" Phylos asks as he selects three bridles from the tack room. Everything is still wet and I wonder if we should help Phylos set the rest of the tack outside to dry.

"Menaces," Herc says. "They ravage crops whenever the people of the Malion District manage to plant them. The creatures don't eat any of the plants, they just tear them up and create a mess."

"But that's the least of the trouble they cause," I continue. "They have an insatiable appetite for flesh, and they don't kill outright. Instead, they attack one by one nipping at their victim until it dies. The birds have a taste for livestock, but prefer children." Herc's face twists into a grimace and I curse myself for the slip up.

"It's so bad that the people living in their range only come out at night when the birds nest on an island in the swamp," Herc adds.

"That's awful," Phylos says.

"They were said to be pets of Ares. Sent here decades ago when Portaceae was fighting the Cedonians, but they've since turned feral which has only compounded their vicious nature."

"You may work for the Solon, but I don't think he favors you," Phylos says as we walk amongst the stalls of subdued horses. We fit the bridles onto our chosen steeds and lead them out to the mounting area. "I'm sorry, but we don't have saddles to spare."

"It's alright. We grew up riding bareback," I say.

As Herc and I are about to swing up onto our new mounts, Phylos says, "You could sleep in the stables tonight. In fact, I strongly advise it. There's still light, but twilight is prime time for the thieves that roam like a plague through this area. Unfortunately, the centaurs can't be everywhere."

I look to Herc. The idea of riding in the dark doesn't appeal to me, despite the speed I'm certain our new horses can sustain. With bandits, speed isn't the issue, not in the low light of evening. We may be able to outrun the thieves, but one wrong move and we could easily be driven into a hidden trap.

"I think we should stay, Herc. It's a long ride that won't go any faster by night."

Herc looks to Phylos. "You're certain you don't mind?"

"My father would mind but he need not know. Once he's snoring in bed, I'll bring down some food and ale."

Thankfully, Herc accepts the offer. We lead the horses back to their stalls, remove their tack, then lay it out to dry. Phylos indicates an empty stall at the far end of the stables where we can spend the night. When he leaves us, we busy ourselves with laying out the rest of the tack to keep the moisture from wasting it away.

A few hours later, Phylos returns with a plate of thick-sliced bread, strong white cheese, and two sausages that smell of spicy peppers. Along with the food, he leaves us a bottle of ale that is nearly as large as the head of the lion in Nemea. Herc and I enjoy the food and the bottle's contents. After that I can only remember laughing my way through some silly story Odysseus had told me, teasing Herc about Iole, being told to shut up, then falling into a heavy, drunken slumber in the straw of our stall.

By the time we wake the next day, the sun has already climbed to its midday height. I shake my cousin awake much to his annoyance. When he realizes the hour, he curses and then clutches his head at the noise of his own voice.

"It's no matter," I tell him as he plops back into the straw. "We can't approach the swamps in the daytime anyway. By leaving this late, we'll be able to travel during the day and get to the swamps at sunset. That will give us time to survey the area, prepare ourselves, rest as much as we can, and then wait for them to come out at dawn. As long as one of us keeps watch during the night, we should be safe."

As we're fitting the dry bridles onto the horses Phylos comes down with more bread slathered in honey.

"This should help if your heads and bellies aren't in fine shape this morning."

I thank him and gobble down the bread. Herc bites into his tentatively at first, but then quickly finishes the rest of the breakfast. With our thick heads, it's slow work to get the horses into their bridles and reins. I'm not certain if my legs have enough spring in them, but surprise myself when I'm able to mount my horse in one leap. Still, the motion sends my stomach gurgling and my head swimming.

"When you repair the tank install a release gate." Herc speaks quietly as he advises Phylos. "In the future, you can raise the gate to clean the stables if things get out of hand."

"I should have thought of it myself. Good luck to you. The messenger was off at first light with news of your accomplishment."

"Many thanks," Herc says. "Although I'm not certain if I'm thankful for your beer this morning."

We ride off with the silver mare attached to a lead that joins her to Herc's horse.

"Bet you're glad I brought the arrows, aren't you?"

"Shut up, Iolalus."

I fall asleep several times on the ride, but each time my head snaps awake Herc is ahead of me sitting tall on his horse. I eat my rolls, imagining them to be the thigh of a fire-roasted chicken and drink water pretending it's Phylos's fine beer. But neither my taste buds nor my belly are fooled.

An early moon arcs above us and the sky has turned to pale purple by the time we near the swamp. The approach is almost as bad as that to the stables. Dead animals, pecked and ravaged until flesh peels off in strings from their skeletons, scatter the area. Left to rot in the wet of the swamp, the putrid flesh fills the air with a thick fog of stench. Even our horses that have lived in mounds of filth for three decades shake their heads trying to clear their nostrils of the vile smell.

Dotting the landscape are cairns of stones probably built over the body of a loved one who fell victim to the birds' violent hunger. The nearer we get to the swamp, the softer the ground becomes until the horses' hooves suck and slop with each step.

"Another cheery locale in Portaceae. We do have a marvelous land of beauty," I comment.

"We can't stop here, we'll sink in."

I scan the area. In the moonlight it seems like nothing more than slime-coated plants, scattered rocks, and water-hugging fog drifts. I've never patrolled here before, but I doubt its appearance improves any during the day. Looking out over the swamp, I see where we need to go.

"There." I point to a long wooden boardwalk.

"Why is that here? This isn't my idea of a recreational area."

"Maybe it used to be. With more water, this could be a lake. Without the nuisance of flesh-eating birds, people could have spent time swimming and fishing here."

"Let's just hope it's sturdy."

The moon is nearly gone by the time we get the horses through the mud at the swamp's edge and to the boardwalk. Despite Herc's protests that he should do it, I dismount and walk to the end of the wooden walkway. Although there are a few missing boards along the way, the massive pylons have held up well and the platform shows no sign of sinking or swaying.

We tie the horses to the land's end of the boardwalk before lying down on the slats. My back resists relaxing at first, but after several moments the muscles ease. I count ten shooting stars arcing across the black, moonless sky. What seems like only two heartbeats later, Herc is shaking me awake. The sky is just showing the light of dawn.

"You didn't sleep?"

"I had too many thoughts racing through my head to sleep."

I stretch and follow my cousin to the end of the boardwalk. He has already arranged the poison-tipped arrows so they'll be easy to grab and notch in a hurry. We each ready an arrow in our bows and wait. Apollo pulls the sun up from the horizon and still we wait. My eyes threaten to close again as I focus on the hump of an island in the center of the swamp.

"Should we walk out to it?" I ask lowering my bow and pacing a tight circle. I need to move before I fall asleep.

"It'll be too soft. You saw how hard it was to move along the shore."

"Why haven't they come out yet? Do you think they know we're here?"

"I thought the horses would have drawn them out. If the birds do know we're here they're clever enough to avoid us."

"Gods, I hate clever opponents," I complain. "How are we going to get them to come out, then?"

"They're attracted to noise," a woman's voice says from behind us.

Herc whips around, his arrow aimed straight between her breasts. She glows in the morning light and wears a flowing white gown that emphasizes a small waist and full hips. At her shoulder perches an owl that regards me with curiosity. I drop to my knees on the boardwalk.

"Athena," I say. I hear Herc mutter an apology and half a moment later he is on his knees beside me.

"Rise," she says as she touches our shoulders. We stand and, although I know I should keep my head bowed, I can't take my eyes off her. Unless you're the leader of a polis, few people ever get so close to one of the gods. "This should help."

Her hand, which had been empty, fills with a baton. As the baton forms, chains emerge from the top of it. Thin metal plates appear at the end of half the chains and the other half are tipped with metal balls the size of large peas. She holds it out to Herc and, as he takes it, the plates and balls clatter against one another. He cups his hand around the chain to quiet the noise.

"I can't help you kill the birds, but I can help you get them off that island. They hate the sound of metal on metal. It's how they once helped in battle—they attacked the source of the sound of clashing swords or even the jangle of armor. Problem was they could never be trusted to strike against the opposing side. Turn that rattle a few times and then ready yourselves, for they will come."

"Why are you helping us?" Herc asks. I think the question a bit ungrateful, but my throat seems unable to make a sound.

She laughs, the sound full of kind amusement.

"Among other things, Hercules Dion, I am the goddess of justice and law. You are being punished beyond the measure of the law."

"But my crime—"

"Was not done by you. Not exactly. I can't say more, not now, but much of what you endure spurns from Hera's hatred toward you. Do you not think it a coincidence that Portaceae's decline began just after your birth? Her hatred for you has distracted Hera from her duties."

"Why would she hate me? I've done nothing but honor the gods and Portaceae."

"It's not my place to tell, but just remember as you go through these trials that much of what you've been denied in your life is not your fault. Including your being born second in line. You should have ruled. Eury knows this and is frightened because people dislike him and they love you." She shifts her intent gaze up to me and grazes my cheek with the back of her fingers. My heart nearly bursts at the touch. "And you, Iolalus. They love you both."

Herc's eyes beg for more information from Athena. If I know my cousin he will have a hundred questions on his tongue and is sorting out which one to ask first. Athena cuts him off before he can settle on his choice.

"I can't answer all that's in your head. Just know you must continue with these tasks. No matter how much you will want to quit, Portaceae's future as well as Hera's depends on it. Now, it is nearing midday. You must set to work; it's your birthday after all and you shouldn't spend the entire day in a swamp."

She leans in and kisses Herc on the cheek and then does the same to me. A flash brighter than sunlight reflecting off a mirror blinds me and makes me think that my heart really has exploded. By the time my vision clears, Athena is gone.

I look to Herc. He appears different somehow. I hadn't noticed before, but for most of the time since his trial he has been carrying himself with his shoulders stooped and his face drooping with remorse. Now, he has pulled himself upright into a vigile's proud stance with shoulders back and confidence showing through. Although he isn't one to go around wearing a smile throughout the day, his eyes take on a new light.

"I didn't kill my children," he says more to himself than to me. "Not intentionally anyway, not because I'm a madman."

"No, but if Hera did this, if she did something to you to make you kill them, she must be the cruelest goddess ever."

"We can't be certain it was Hera," Herc says defensively. "It doesn't make sense for her to do such a thing. Besides, even if it was, I have no room for anger toward her, not yet anyway, I can't think beyond the fact that it wasn't me." Tears brim his eyes. He brushes them away with his forearm while holding tight to the rattle. "It wasn't me." I give him a moment. Now is not the time to argue with him about Hera or any of the gods. Athena has just cleared him of a giant's weight of guilt and he needs to enjoy that. After a short time, he lifts the rattle, his hand still clutched over it to keep the chains silent. "Are you ready?"

I notch my bow, aim it toward the island and nod to indicate my readiness. The dead quiet of the swamp is broken by the clanging of metal on metal, a tinkling sound at first, but as Herc twists it faster, the melodic chime becomes a grating noise.

Like black lightning, the birds burst from the island cawing and screeching so loudly it drowns out the rattle's harsh tune. I fire three shots in rapid succession, felling a bird with each one. The chains clank into a heap as Herc rushes up beside me with his bow at the ready. But the birds are already heading back to the island flying hawk-fast out of range. Herc sends off one arrow, but it misses its target by the distance of an eagle's wing span.

"Get the rattle," he yells. "Keep making the noise."

"You can't take them all on your own."

"Just do it."

I pick up the rattle and twirl it. This is madness. One archer can't possibly take on all the birds. As soon as the plates and balls clash together, the birds emerge again. Once they're in range, Herc fires. A few arrows only nick the birds, but they fall from the sky nonetheless thanks to the poisonous effects of Lerna's blood. Herc is knocking a bird from the sky with each arrow, but it isn't enough. They're honing in on the rattle. On me.

Pain sears through me faster than my eyes can register the birds' swooping attack. Claws rip into my shoulder. Beaks peck into my hands. The whoosh of flapping, black-feathered wings swarms my head. I drop the rattle, but the birds continue their assault. The crow-like things overwhelm my vision so all I can see is blood and black. All I can hear are angry caws as they fight for position to drive beaks and claws into my face, neck, ears, head, and shoulders.

I beat at the birds, pounding them with my fists, but this only diverts the attention of a few of them who stab their dagger-like beaks into my hands instead of my head.

"Stop. Keep your hands down," Herc shouts. Against all instinct, I lower my hands. Bird bodies smash up against my head but then begin falling away one after another. Once I can see light again, the remaining birds flap away, screeching at one another.

At my feet lay seven of the devil birds, blood dripping out of them into the swamp. I kick one and then the other until the boardwalk is clear of the sight of them. In his hand, Herc holds his dagger.

"You were stabbing at my head?" I yell.

"It worked," he says with a shrug.

My face throbs with scratches and gashes, but I pick up the rattle, my hands shaking from pain and fear. The birds come again. The sound of their flapping wings makes me want to fling the rattle into the swamp and run. Using all my willpower, I hold tight to the noise maker and continue twirling it back and forth. The sky is no longer black with the birds' wings and the devils now approach us more cautiously. I'm finally able count them. Twelve. I look to the stash of arrows Herc has left. Twelve.

"You're going to have to put on quite a show," I say. A few crows plunge toward us but make no direct attack. Still, it sends a chill through me to have them close enough to feel the wind of their wings against my cheeks. "Don't let those things touch me again."

Herc's first three arrows find the breasts of three birds in succession and send them splashing lifeless into the swamp. The fourth only grazes a wing, but the poison at the arrow's tip is enough to kill the bird. The fifth arrow pierces a neck and the sixth punctures a leg. When Herc shoots his seventh arrow, the bird it's intended for swoops down, diving under the arrow that continues its trajectory until the weapon arcs and pierces nothing but the surface of the murky water. Herc curses and, barely taking time to aim, delivers three more arrows into the sky. He takes out three more birds, but only with grazing nicks.

"Easy," I say over the sound of the rattle. "Keep your calm."

Herc takes a deep breath and shakes the tension out of his shoulders. In the time his bow is lowered, the three remaining birds draw in closer. My hands tremble on the rattle. I try to hold it tighter, but my palms are sweating so profusely I can hardly keep a grip on the thing's smooth surface. Every caw, every whoosh as a bird whizzes over my head makes me think all the flesh of my face will soon be in their gullets.

Two of the three remaining birds fly in tandem toward us. Herc raises his bow, taking time to aim. I can see what he hopes to do, drive a single arrow through two birds. It isn't impossible. I've seen him take down two ducks with one shot, but those had been placid waterfowl. These are war birds.

The crows angle themselves to fly side by side. Herc takes the shot. Only one bird crashes into the swamp as the other swoops aside giving out a laughing caw.

One arrow, two birds. Herc hesitates and they careen toward us.

"Just let them attack me again," I say with fear raising the pitch of my voice. "Stab them like you did before. You can't risk wasting the arrows."

He doesn't respond. Instead, he holds the final arrow taut in his bowstring, watching along the arrow's shaft as the birds narrow in on us.

Two beaks and four claw-filled feet dive in. Five arm lengths. Four arm lengths. My raw skin screams at me to run, to cover myself from another attack. Three arm lengths. Two arm lengths.

"Behind me now," Herc commands.

Still clutching the rattle, I dash behind Herc. The birds, forced to change their direction to aim at the metallic clang, cross in front of one another. Herc fires.

As if all the world has slowed, I watch the arrow. The poisoned blood at the tip seems to flame red as it pierces through the lead bird's breast. The second bird adjusts its wings' angle to steer away and avoid the body of its companion. The proximity and force of the shot forces the arrow through the chest of the lead bird, driving the body of the creature back. Before the rear bird can swerve away, his companion's carcass barrels into him. The protruding arrow tip slips into and through the bird's neck. Both birds drop onto the boardwalk, skewered on the final arrow.

Herc places his hands over mine. In my panic I've continued to twirl the rattle. His hands stop my twirling and all is quiet. After so much noise, the silence overwhelms my ears. Blood trickles across my cheeks and neck as my limbs shake. I meet Herc's eyes.

"Regardless of what Athena says," I say, "I think you may be insane."

He turns, a look of worry crosses his face as he sees the damage the birds have done to me. In an instant, he drops his bow and pulls me to him in a tight hug.

"No, I'm not."

## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

### _Eury_

THE MORNING AFTER my final celebration day greets me with a thudding headache. Regardless the price of the Illamosian wine, it never fails to leave me suffering the next day. But what can one expect after downing four bottles over the course of a night's festivities? My agony doesn't improve when Baruch's knock rattles my bed chamber door and bounces off the delicate walls of my skull.

There can be only one reason he would disturb me at such an hour: Hera is waiting.

I untangle myself from Adneta's long limbs and a blurry memory of her and Baruch dancing to a languid tune wisps through my pounding head. It's so good of her to include the lesser people in our revels. I kiss her on the forehead, grab a silken robe from the floor, and step out of the room into the hallway.

"Excellency, Hera—" Baruch starts, but I put up a hand to silence him.

"No doubt was in my mind that it was Hera who sent you pounding on my door when my brain is already pounding against my skull."

"I've prepared your clothes," Baruch says trying to guide me toward my dressing chamber door.

"Forget it. If she insists on rousing me from my bed before noon, she'll just need to appreciate that I bother to cover myself at all."

Baruch remains silent and gives a slight bow as I brush past him. So much for the delightful festivities I'd had. All those revelries, all for me. The feasting, the games in the arena, people cheering my name even if not as boisterously as I would prefer, and my cousins completely out of sight.

The only moment when the foul taste of my cousins hit me was yesterday morning when Baruch had handed me a folded piece of parchment stamped with the seal of Stephos Augeus—a horse head surrounded by grape clusters. I'd broken the seal and given a half-hearted glance at the contents. The words of praise for my two cousins from Phylos Augeus were enough to make me hurl a wine bottle—empty, of course—against the wall of my study as my nose gave one of its betraying pulses. I wadded up the letter and threw it to the ground hoping Herc and Iolalus would be enjoying all the comforts the swamps had to offer. I have to admit the birds were a stroke of genius. Unless Adneta has developed a taste for crow meat, there'll be no gift for her coming from the chore, but it did keep the great heroes out of the city another day—I consider it a gift to myself.

My head throbs with each step up the stairs to the Gods' Room. I bend over on the twenty-eighth step and suck in several deep breaths to keep from throwing up. By the thirty-seventh, I'm using the rail to pull myself up hoping to ease the _thud, thud, thud_ echoing in my head from my footsteps. It doesn't. By the fortieth step I'm pressing my head between both hands to keep it from bursting. When I pull open the door, the blindingly bright sunlight sends a harpy screaming through my brain. It takes several moments for my eyes to adjust well enough to see Hera. Even her beauty can't dispel my painful annoyance.

"Well?" I ask.

"It's your cousin's birthday. I want him wed and out of my House."

Lost in the enjoyment my own festivities, I'd forgotten Herc's birthday. He was actually born only a few hours after me and throughout our childhood I was made to celebrate my birthday with Alcmena's bastard. My grandfather insisted it would bring us closer together. The year he died, the year my mother took regency and I became Solon, I changed Herc's birthday to officially be two days after mine so I would no longer have to share my day with him. My thirteenth was the first birthday I truly looked forward to.

From rumors going around the city, Herc is desired by many women and I should have made a decent profit taking bribes— _donations_ , I call them—from women who want to ensure their name is selected from the lottery. After the first few tasks, many applicants had put in their name, but I was so angered by his popularity, I threw their requests into the fire and have yet to earn a single drachar from what could possibly be the biggest round of wedding bribery in Portaceae's history.

To drum up some fervor, rally a few of Portaceae's wealthiest single women, and quietly accept their donations, I will need to delay Herc's wedding day for at least a week. Hera can't argue with that. After all, her only hurry is to get Herc away from Iole and I'm already seeing to that with the tasks.

"I haven't had time to pick a wife for him," I say. "Give me a week or two to sort out the paperwork."

"There's no need. I have someone in mind."

Damn the gods. I know I gave her the task, but with her hatred of him, I hadn't expected Hera to give Herc or his nuptials a second thought.

"Who did you have in mind?"

"Deianira Devos."

I can't help but laugh at Hera's choice and then regret making the sound for the screeches of pain it sends through my head. Deianira Devos has a body that is straighter than some stretches of the Osterian Road and a pile of hair that grows like a rampant blackberry shrub over her head. Although she's known for an aggressive passion for bed sport that makes even the brothel whores blush, she also carries a possessive streak to rival Hera's own jealousy. Her desperate clinging sends men who sample her fruits running after only a few tastes. But, if married, Herc cannot run.

I take Hera's hand and bend to kiss her fingers.

"A delightful choice," I say with a smile.

* * *

The next morning, as Adneta and I breakfast in the courtyard, Baruch delivers two crows with dangerously sharp beaks. The birds dangle from an arrow he is holding by its feathered end. A disgusted look crinkles his normally placid face.

"A new bit of décor for the garden?" I quip.

"These were left at the door."

A week ago, gods, two days ago I'd have throttled someone for Herc's insolence. To not even present them to me directly would have been an outrage. But the knowledge of his upcoming nuptials and his potential misery within them has me in too good a mood to be bothered by the stiff and stinking carcasses before me.

"I see my cousins have returned. Good. Send a letter to the House of Hera stating that Herc must make himself presentable at the arena this evening. He has his wedding to attend, after all." Baruch nods and turns to leave the courtyard. Before he can get too far, I snap my fingers to call him back. "And when you deliver the message, be certain it passes through the fingers of the head priestess."

## CHAPTER NINETEEN

### _Iole_

THE NEWS HITS me harder than if one of Portaceae City's buildings had collapsed onto me. It was inevitable though. Whenever a polis grows weak there will be another polis ready to claim its land and, more often than not, it's the Areans who are the first to strike.

As head Herene, I will have to be the one to forward the news to the Solon and help decide a course of action. If he will only take what money is left over from the extravagance of his celebration festivities, we can use it to repair the city walls and to hire more vigiles to form a larger army. But how much is left?

People, always glad for a distraction, had enjoyed the daytime festivities, but when Eury invited only the wealthiest of Osteria's families to his private dinner parties, the grumbling began. It was from numerous pairs of lips that I heard rumors of the vigiles naming Herc Solon as soon as he'd served his tribute, and some lips were saying they wouldn't bother to wait that long. It would go against all precedent, but my position as head priestess could allow me to turn those rumors into reality.

And something needs to happen soon. Portaceae's vigiles and volunteers can't hold off the Areans long. The people from Ares's polis are the most aggressive and land hungry of Osteria. When Portaceae was strong the Areans would never have dared to invade, but three days ago they had crossed the eastern border and, using poison-tipped arrows, had slaughtered anyone who stood against them in Nemea. With Portaceae's weakened finances, the vigiles are spread too sparsely across the polis leaving Portaceae's outer areas poorly defended. The Areans have claimed Nemea as their own. If this news is current, they seem to have settled there for now, but how long will it take before they reach Portaceae City?

I would have to plead to Hera to intervene. Only she has a chance at convincing Ares to reign in his people. Let the Areans snatch land from the Middish or the unoccupied lands between the poli, not from other Osterians. But will she listen, or will my pleas fall on ears that seem deaf to any news regarding the downfall of her polis?

I stare at the map of Osteria on my wall, tracing the line the Areans will most likely take to Portaceae City while Maxinia clacks away at her abacus and curses at the results. A knock at the open door startles me.

"Your Highness, another message has come."

"Thank you, Euphemia." I take the letter from her gnarled hands, the knuckles swelling out like galls on an oak branch. I'm so distracted by my worries that I forget to correct the title she has given me before she hobbles back down the hall to the stairs.

I turn the letter over. The peacock with a crown stamped into the red sealing wax stirs an annoyed curiosity within me. What news could Eury have for me? Has he already heard of the Areans' attack? I break the seal and scan the message. Thankfully, the chair catches me when my legs fail to give me support.

"Iole? Are you alright?" Maxinia rushes to me. "Is it more bad news?"

I swallow hard, trying to take air into my chest that feels as if a centaur's hoof is crushing it.

"Yes, it is." I stand, supporting myself on the door jamb. "Please excuse me."

Crinkling the letter in my fist, I go into the hall and push open one of the windows to take in deep gulps of air. Unwilling to leave my rooms until I've composed myself, I curl onto the window seat that looks out over the courtyard. Along the paths, Herc and Iolalus walk the courtyard's perimeter and even the older acolytes turn their heads to watch the handsome pair. Iolalus's face and arms are covered in a pale yellow ointment, one of Cecilia's miraculous concoctions that she had applied over his wounds when the two men returned last night. Despite his injuries, Iolalus still seems to humor his cousin who wears an amused grin.

_What a fool I must be to have thought it would come to anything other than this. _

Of course he will have to be married. Yesterday had been his official birthday by Eury's reckoning and, thanks to my silly imagination, I've been ignoring the plain fact that Portaceae's men do not remain single for long. Did I think he could stay at the House of Hera with me? Had I been foolish enough to believe anything could come of my affection for him? Herene of the Herenes I may be, but it doesn't stop my emotions or longings.

When he had returned from being sent to the Malion Swamps—a horrible trick that had earned Eury another dose of discord from his people—and presented the white mare to me, had I read too much into the look in his eye? My love-blind heart had interpreted it as a look of longing, the look of seeing someone who you had missed, the look of being reunited with someone you love. But my stern, logical brain insisted he was only being polite, that he was replacing the horses Eury had taken, that he had no interest in an unobtainable servant of Hera.

"She's beautiful," I had said as the horse nuzzled her satin-soft nose against my hand.

"It's only fitting you should have her," he replied.

"And yours, he's lovely. Perhaps we can go riding together when this tribute business is done." My words felt bold, but I feared he would scoff at them.

"I would like that," he said smiling with his ocean blue eyes fixed on mine.

My heart had flown into a torrent of confusion and wishful thoughts, but the letter crumpled in my hand has awoken me to the reality that he is a male citizen of Portaceae, he is thirty years old, he is widowed. He has to be married. The Herenes, as his guardian, will take him to the arena where he will either choose a woman for himself or Eury will select one from a herd of volunteers. Eury will then sign and place his seal on the document registering their union as I wrap a cloth embroidered with fans of peacock tails around their joined hands. I throw the letter to the floor and tuck myself into my window seat, clutching my legs and arms against my body as tight as possible.

As I watch Herc in the courtyard take some corn from Euphemia, I remember watching the ceremony of his first wedding day. I'd been with the Herenes for seven years including my two-year period of study. When I was called to assist at the event, I had tried to convince the head priestess I was too ill to go, but she wasn't one to allow a slight stomach complaint to keep one from her duties. Only months after the ceremony, she died and I took her place as head Herene and the woman who would oversee all weddings. Even this one.

Watching him then in his ceremonial vigile breast plate standing tall and proud, but with his hands giving a telling tremble of nerves, I couldn't help but wish he'd pick me—apparently I was a fool even then to think a man would risk his life to love a priestess of Hera. Instead, he chose Megara, the daughter of one of his mother's close friends. Megara readily agreed. A small flick of jealousy smoldered within me as I watched Herc and Megara's hands be bound, but on the same side of the coin, I was glad he wouldn't have to face the raucous taunts that erupted from the audience whenever a woman refused. Much of the jeers had to do with the size of the groom's manhood. But on that occasion they didn't get a chance to throw their verbal spears.

From the courtyard below, Iolalus looks up to my window and gives a cheerful wave. Herc, turning his attention to what his cousin is looking at, waves as well. The peacock he's been feeding, pecks his hand causing Herc to drop his handful of corn. Herc's face pulls into a frustrated scowl, but Iolalus's laughter becomes infectious and soon both Herc and Euphemia are chuckling along with him.

What am I to do at today's ceremony when my stomach is already gnawing on itself at the thought of this wedding? I love him. It's an achingly unrequited love that can never be acknowledged, but it is love nonetheless. How can I be expected to hold my composure as I bind his hand to that of another woman? I now understand a little of the jealousy that consumes my mother whenever Zeus beds another. Unlike her, I refuse to let my feelings overwhelm me. However, there is no reason to give him up without a fight.

I crawl out of the window seat, take another look out the window to see Herc tentatively petting a peacock, snatch up the crumpled letter, and then return to my office. Maxinia, her face filled with concern, looks up from her tallies.

"I need the book with the laws regarding tributes," I tell her.

She sets down her quill and, with a grace that is surprising to see in a woman so large, she strides without hesitation to the shelf of books along the south wall of the room. Running her finger along the spines, she scans them for a moment before pulling out a thick tome bound in green leather. She places it on my desk.

"This is the one. I believe it's best to start around page one hundred and twenty nine. The first portion is mainly the history of the laws." She hesitates before adding, "And we've yet to see a posting from His Excellency."

I sigh. Some days it feels as if the Herenes are the only ones holding the polis together.

"Which is why we have the Areans barking at our door. I'll tend to the matter soon. Just try to find some money somewhere. This polis needs to obtain weapons and fortifications somehow or we will lose Portaceae altogether." She nods agreement and the expression on her face tells me her mind is already working out the figures.

"Before you get back to your work, please let Herc know he is to be to the arena an hour before sunset."

"Another trial?"

"You could say that." I hand her the balled up letter. "Please deliver this to him."

Maxinia leaves the room, ducking her head as she passes through the doorway. I open the book on my desk and begin my search.

* * *

I study the book through the afternoon. When I find the law I've been looking for, I read its entirety several times until I've memorized the details. I'm still uncertain whether or not I will use the knowledge. If Herc chooses someone or if he appears pleased with the wife selected for him, I am resolved to quit this silly line of thinking. But if he doesn't—

"My lady, it's time to dress," Estia says. Despite being in my service for four years, her speech still carries the curious accent of the Califf Lands with its sleek vowels and words that flow into one another. She is a slim, tiny woman with a flair for making an appearance. The skill she has for changing my limited wardrobe with only a few embellishments never fails to impress and surprise me.

I follow her to my dressing room where a gown awaits me. She slips it over my head and chatters away as she does her work. After nearly an hour of her slipping pieces of fabric over me and weaving things into my hair, she turns me to face a mirror.

"I look amazing, Estia," I blurt. I blush at how vain it sounds, but it's impossible to contain my pleasure over what she's done, how unforgettable she's made me appear.

Silver strands of thin ribbon snake and braid their way through my near white hair giving it a metallic shimmer when the light hits it. Although the effect appeals to me, it doesn't distract my eyes long from what Estia has done to decorate my body.

The plain white gown, the same one I wore the day Herc was to be sent under, has been transformed under Estia's hands. The lower portion is now a long and flowing garment of two layers—the top being sheer, with the under one fitted to my body. The layering gives the gown a sensual appearance while retaining the modesty my position requires.

Cinching the dress at my waist is a silver band from which dangles dozens of thin silver chains that Estia assures me will sway without tangling as I walk. The bodice, plain and loose the last time I had worn it, is now form-fitting and embellished with a row of silver embroidery along the neckline that dips just to where my breasts curve out. In a final flourish of fabric, Estia produces a ceremonial cloak of white silk with a row of silver peacock silhouettes stitched along the hem. She drapes it over my shoulders, arranges it until it sits evenly, then fastens it with a sliver chain.

"They say in the Pre-Disaster world that women wore gowns of white to their weddings." Her words nearly collapse my composure. I push down the image of Herc and me standing together, of him choosing me, of having our hands bound together as Portaceae looks on.

The bells begin tolling to announce a gathering in the arena. I thank and praise Estia for her work.

"Between you and the groom, I do not know who will capture the crowd's attention more strongly. He did not want to, but I insisted he wear the pelt. It was a marvelous idea of mine, if I do say so." She clasps my hands and kisses me quickly on each cheek as the bells continue their call.

* * *

Approaching the arena with Maxinia by my side, I thank the gods for the private entrance the Herenes share with the Solon. The queues to enter the arena sprawl around the structure and even the least observant person wouldn't fail to notice the majority are women dressed in their finest clothes. I can't stop myself from scanning the lines wondering if one of the women in my view will be Herc's bride.

After skirting around Eury's ridiculous carriage, Maxinia and I duck into the arena's rear entrance. In the low light of the arena's interior, Maxinia and I pause so I can hand her the plain linen cloak I've worn over my ceremonial cloak and dress to keep them from being covered with road dust on our walk over. As I pass it to her, I hear wet sounds and heavy breathing. I give Maxinia a questioning look but she only shrugs. We head toward the ramp that leads up to the dais.

When we pass the side hall that houses the stairs to the Solon's and Herenes' box seats, the source of the sounds becomes clear. Eury's tall, regal servant is pressing a woman against the wall of the stairwell. Her legs twine around him as his hips thrust rhythmically.

"Adneta," he murmurs. She moans and lets out a passionate cry. He covers her mouth with his to quiet her as they both heave against each other.

I should be offended. I should call the vigiles. By Hera's law, adultery is punishable with hard labor, but I find it's a law I have no desire to enforce when the man being cuckolded is Eury Stephanos. Let him be made a fool of as he makes a fool of Portaceae.

Maxinia and I continue up the ramp and to the dais where Eury paces back and forth glancing up at his box with every turn. No doubt he's wondering where his wife has gotten to. I give a brief nod to greet him, but rather than acknowledge it, his eyes drift up to the box and then to my breasts.

"A word, Excellency. I've had a message from East Portaceae."

"Can't it wait? This is supposed to be festive," he says irritably. He looks up again and his anxious fidgeting stops.

I follow his gaze up to the box where Adneta has finally appeared with her cheeks flushed. She gives Eury a wave and blows him a kiss. The servant stands in the back of the box staring off into the distance, his face masked with a bored expression. Eury, his wife accounted for, turns his attention back to me.

"No, it can't. Portaceae has been attacked," I say. My voice is filled with bile, but the Solon only smirks at me. "You need to get money into the treasury so we can strengthen the city walls and raise an army. A trained army of mobilized vigiles from Portaceae and any other polis that will help us, not a cluster of Nemean farmers with scythes and stones."

"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."

"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.

"When I entered the House of Hera the day after the fire, I asked the head priestess—the one who oversaw the House prior the liver-spotted priestess I would later replace—if the Herenes couldn't honor him. He'd saved one of their members, after all. She kindly said that if I'd already started my training as an initiate, then yes, they would have to honor him. But as I hadn't even moved my things out of my parents' home at the time of the rescue, she couldn't. She did however, give me the bit of wisdom that mentioning a thing often enough can make it so.

"So, whenever my family and the people on my street spoke to others, we were sure to mention the Hero of Hestia and include Herc's name. In only a few weeks, the majority of Portaceae City joined Herc Dion's name with the title Hero of Hestia. By the time I was half way through my training, even people in the districts of Portaceae knew him as the hero who had saved dozens of lives."

Iolalus and I sit for a moment with only the scratching of Maxinia's quill breaking the silence. He swallows what remains in his cup and pours another to empty the first jug. He pops the cork out of the second jug and tops my drink off. My head is already fuzzy, but I don't care. I don't so much want to forget the day, not with what Herc said, not with the intensity of his look still clinging to me, but I do want to wash my mind clean of what he will be doing with Deianira on this their wedding night.

"You were quite heroic today yourself," Iolalus says. "He was dreading leaving here."

"Well, he's gone now." I down half my glass and fill it again.

Iolalus leans forward and places his hand over my glass as I reach again for the jug. "He does love you," he whispers.

"Little good it does me." My words slosh into themselves, but despite the quantity of wine I've consumed, flashes of Herc and Deianira's faces on the thrusting bodies of Adneta and Baruch still invade my mind. "I am a Herene, not allowed to love or be loved," I say haughtily. "But I am allowed to command you to keep this glass full."

At some point, I remember Maxinia putting me into a spinning bed. I dream of nothing and thank all the gods except my mother for that.

## CHAPTER TWENTY

### _Herc_

THE JOURNEY TO my new wife's home could not go better if I had planned it. She insists on riding together on her horse, a salt-and-pepper mare who is past her prime but still sturdy enough to hold two riders for a short distance. Deianira sits in front of me as I take the reins. Her hair blocks much of my view, but the horse seems to know her destination without any guidance.

The streets have filled with people who are breaking out bottles of homemade wine and liquor. As the horse lumbers her way through the crowd, people pass cups up inviting us to celebrate with them. After two cups, I only pretend to accept their offerings, but make sure Deianira enjoys several drinks.

"It honors them, don't you think, to have the great Hercules Dion and his wife drink from their stores?" she asks. Her words are only slightly slurred so I agree and pass her two more cups that have been handed up to me. By the time the horse parks herself in the cramped yard behind a narrow house, my bride can hardly hold herself upright on the mare.

As much as I don't want to be married to her, I don't want to see Deianira hurt by a fall onto the worn and dirty cobbles of the yard. I dismount, then hold her by the waist to help her down. She takes the chance to cling to me and place wet, wine-sodden kisses on my face. When she grabs at my groin, I lift her into my arms, cradling her head as I slip through the unlocked back door.

"Where's the bedroom?" I ask.

"Up." She juts her arm toward a corner where the low hue of twilight seeps through the window to show a steep staircase that leads to the house's cramped sleeping space. By the time I reach the top, Deianira's head lolls in my arms.

I do bed my wife, but only in the sense of slipping off her sandals and placing her on a thin mattress. Before I can pull the covers over her bony body, she is already snoring more heavily than a satyr.

I make my way back down the stairs and bite my lip to keep from crying out when I bump into a table that takes up most of what must be the kitchen area of the house. I grope for a candle and find one in the center of the table. In the hearth, a pot full of embers glows. Most people in Portaceae City can't afford matches so they keep ember pots to quickly light fires and candles as needed. The pots are a danger, but it's impossible for the vigiles to enforce the law and make people begin every fire from scratch with flint and tinder when there are larger worries in the polis and not enough vigiles to tend to even a fraction of them.

I dip the wick into the embers and blow light puffs of air until flames catch the wick. On the table, Deianira has set out a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a small cake she must have hoped we would share if she was selected. A stab of pity hits me, but I cannot bring myself to feel anything deeper for my wife. I place my breastplate and cloak on a chair, sit at the table, and fill one of the glasses.

I can only imagine what is running through Iole's mind. I want to flee from this house, jump on the old mare, and race her back to the House of Hera. "And what then?" I mutter as I take a sip of the wine. It's bitter with a vinegary tang so I shove it aside. Would I take a Herene, the Herene of Herenes as Artemis had called her, tell her I love her, and bed her?

I scoff at my own thought, but the image of Iole, how perfect she looked in her dress, how we matched one another on the dais, and how she had looked at me when I all but said I wanted to be with her, leaves me with the seed of hope. Ever since Athena planted the possibility in my mind that I might not be the monster I assumed myself to be, thoughts of Iole loving me have not been far from my mind and today's events have only flamed the pot of embers I hold in my heart for her. I stand and go to the door, my hand on the knob ready to go back to her. In the dark of night when all of the House is asleep, who would see me go into her rooms?

A loud snort from upstairs clears my head and forces me out of my daydream. I drop my hand from the door. How can I go to Iole? I am wed. She is a Herene and the daughter of Hera. We will both face severe punishment if I act on my impulses. It's bad enough I'm avoiding my marriage bed on my wedding night to sit up thinking of Iole, worse still to risk her life. I return to the table and pick at the stale cake. I'm disturbed only once from my reverie by distant shouts, but no one trips a call box so I assume the noise is merely a group of partiers that have had too much to drink.

When the room starts to glow pink with dawn's light, I go upstairs and slip into bed hoping to give the appearance I've spent the night with my wife. Once in the bed, exhaustion overwhelms me making it impossible to hold my eyes open.

* * *

I wake to Deianira straddling me. Her mound of hair slips forward and swallows her face as she leans down to kiss me. She hasn't cleaned her teeth and the morning smell on her breath makes me jerk my head away.

"Morning lover." She grinds against my hips. "Let's do whatever we did again."

Apparently she's made her own memories of our wedding night.

"I need to relieve myself," I say and slip out from under her.

"In the corner." She points to a white pot at the far side of the room. As I lift my tunic, she inches up behind me, peering around to catch a glimpse.

How can I tell her I want to share no intimacy with her, not even a piss?

"Please, I can't with you watching."

She cackles at that and flops back into bed. "With something that size, you ought to show it off."

I take as long as I can. I have no desire for this woman. The woman I want is in the House of Hera, not here. As I lower my tunic a sad desperation settles like a blanket of fog over me. What does it matter? What can I hope for with Iole? I may love her, I may imagine us together, but by the laws of Portaceae, Iole serves only Hera and cannot love a man. To top it off I've been bound to the woman behind me. I have a duty to uphold with her. If I can hold thoughts of Iole in my mind, perhaps I can manage to complete that duty.

I turn from the pot. On the bed Deianira is on all fours with her skeletal hind end sticking up in the air. She looks through her hair back at me.

"Fuck me, husband."

_Gods, there is no way I can pretend this woman is Iole._

Seeing my hesitation, she turns around and crawls to the edge of the bed where I stand and takes me in her mouth. I close my eyes and imagine Iole in her gauzy dress with the band of silver chains at her waist. I think of removing the outfit piece by piece to reveal her body. When I picture bending down to touch her lips with mine, I finally feel myself stirring. Deianira pauses from her aggressive attention.

"It's about time you got interested. It's not men you like, is it?" Her words fly me back to my flaccid state.

Just as she returns to her work, a knock sounds from the door below. I brush her away and smooth down the front of my tunic.

"Leave it," she says. "It's probably just another well-wisher. You'll ache if I don't finish you."

She says this as if she has even started me. She reaches for my crotch, but I step aside placing myself just out of her grasp, then jog down the stairs to the door.

I've barely taken the sealed letter from the messenger's hand when I hear my wife's heavy footfalls on the wooden steps. How a woman so skinny can have such an ungraceful step perplexes me. With a quick snatch, she steals the letter from my hand and breaks the seal despite it being addressed only to me.

"He can't be serious." She starts to tear the letter, but I grip her wrists before she makes it halfway through the first rip. She closes in on me, an attempt at a seductive smirk on her face. "Oh, rough play. Why didn't you say that's what you like?" When she relaxes her hold on the letter, I let go of her wrists and whisk the paper out of her hands.

"Another task?" My voice is tinged with disappointment. I won't be staying in the House of Hera tonight or for several nights to come. Will I even see Iole before I leave?

"You don't have to leave right now, do you?"

"It's a summons from the Solon," I say feigning the highest respect for my cousin. "If I ignore it, it could mean my death."

"We have time for something quick." She emphasizes the final word by clutching onto my crotch. I gently push her away and move to the table to be out of her grasp.

"I have to gather my things and collect Iolalus." I throw my cloak around me and grab my breastplate. "I've no time. I need to get to the House of Hera."

I may have earned her sympathy if not for the final sentence. At the mention of the House, her attempts at looking seductive instantly change. Her eyes narrow and her thin lips stretch into a harsh gash as she crosses her arms over her narrow chest.

"To her. You're going to her," she accuses. "You plan to fuck her before you go? Is that what you want?" My ears ring with the volume of her shouts in the tight house.

"Enough, Deianira," I yell. "I am married to you and I know the law and my duty. And you know I still have tribute to pay. I don't intend to die or have my cousin die because of your needs that can wait until I return."

I yank open the door and storm out of the house slamming the rickety piece of wood behind me. Once outside of the dark, narrow home and out of its dank alleyway, the morning sunlight hits me. Despite a lingering sense of agitation with Deianira, the warm light bathes my face and fills me with a sense of hope for a fine day. I hurry my way through the pitted streets, anxious as a schoolboy to see Iole.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

### _Eury_

MY FEET CRUNCH across the broken glass littering my foyer. In the small hours of Herc's wedding night, the partying turned to rioting and a hoard of people invaded the grounds of my villa. One of the trespassers hurled a rock through my front windows before the guards chased the attackers away. Only one was caught, a boy of thirteen with blonde, cow-licked hair. I told the guards to detain him, then use him for archery practice as soon as dawn gave them enough light.

I don't try to go back to bed. What would be the point? I hadn't been sleeping when I heard the crash of rock meeting glass. Instead, I stand at the window watching the guards dragging the boy off. He resists so violently, his shoulder rips out of its socket leaving his arm dangling at a grotesque angle. His screams as they shove it back into place set the horses in the stables whinnying in fright as if one of their own has been injured.

The entire event and its aftermath truly sickens me. Of course, I did enjoy watching Herc's discomfort at the wedding, the Herene's too. But afterwards, the celebrations had taken on ridiculous proportions with partying continuing far into the night. A person would think Portaceae had been chosen to host the Osterian Games again with the way everyone took to the streets cheering and hooting and drinking and shouting, "Herc the Hero, Herc the Hero is wed." The sounds of the people's cheers refuse to leave my head.

I push at the mess of glass with my foot being careful not to pierce my slippers, then bend down to pick up the rock.

The marriage isn't even news, certainly none worth celebrating. Of course, he's wed. He's an adult male and therefore married like most of the rest of us. It's not as if he made it rain gold. Oh, and that ploy from Iole by dragging up some old tribute law. It took guts, I'll give her that. For a moment there, I'd thought Deianira might just leap up and rip the Herene's throat out.

A servant enters with a broom and waits in the shadows pretending to be invisible but her breathing is like a wheezing scream in the silence of the foyer. I tip the rock back and forth between my hands. How easy it would be to hurl this at her and silence her irksome noise. I wonder, would the rock shatter her skull as it had the glass pane?

I step away from the window, moving toward her, clutching the rock in my right hand. Her eyes dart to me, but then, as she's been trained to do, she looks to the ground as I come near her. Does she know she's inches from death?

I pause a moment beside her. Her breathing stops. I linger, wondering how long she can hold her breath. How long until she can take it no longer and sucks in a deep wheezing gasp? I work the rock back and forth a few more times, then jerk it up clutched in my hand like a weapon just to watch the woman flinch. The power of her fear should thrill me, but my foul mood allows no room for any joy. I lower the rock, turn away from the servant, and climb the stairs to my bed chamber. To Adneta.

She'd been ecstatic when I revealed the golden menagerie to her little by little over my festival days. My wife was like a child as she clapped for joy at the sight of the glittering creatures, but proved to be very much a woman when she thanked me with every attention a man could want. She burned with a passionate glee over her gift.

Until she saw Iole's dress today.

When my wife saw the Herene's outfit, she turned as cold as the glacial ice on the Hooded Mount and insisted I get her one just like it. Not knowing how I would pay for it, I promised her a similar gown in every color, every material she could hope for. Unfortunately, even the acts Adneta performed with her pouty little mouth after I put in the order with the royal dressmaker couldn't erase the lingering traces of the chants that still ring in my ears.

Herc is becoming ever more a favorite with the people. And that popularity is a risk to me more than ever before. But I still need him.

A feeling of being in a box I can't climb out of consumes me. I have to cling to the railing to avoid toppling back and as I do, the rock tumbles out of my hand tolling a heavy _bang, bang, bang_ as it rolls down the stairs. The servant yelps at the sound, but she quickly cuts off her cry and I hear the swish of her broom pushing the glass once more.

Do I need him? Why can't I just insist on a task such as, "Drive this dagger through your heart?" If he does so, good, I can always find some way to be rid of Iolalus. And if he doesn't, all the better because both my cousins will be sent under for Herc's failure to complete the tribute service.

I push open the door to the bed chamber. My dressing room door stands open; perhaps I'd forgotten to latch it when I grabbed my robe and slippers. In the bed, Adneta sleeps looking beautiful in the moonlight. My heart aches as I touch her hair.

And here is the very reason I can't be done with him. My wife will wake when the sunlight streams in the bed chamber and begin asking what I can give her and I will scramble to come up with a gift. Perhaps I'm a fool, or being made into a fool, but she gives me joy and I want to do the same for her. She will always want things, but only Herc has the strength, the cleverness, and the blind devotion to Portaceae to risk his life performing tasks he thinks benefit the polis. Tasks that can get me the objects to bring my Solonia pleasure

I despise him for that.

I need him and I need rid of him. I go to the window and squint my eyes to see how far I can see in the low light. The hills of the city are clear, but in the distance, only the silhouettes of the mountains can be seen.

The silhouettes send a spark of an idea through me. The further away I send him, the longer the tasks will take.

Sending him away during my celebrations has proven one thing: Unlike any normal man who would have taken his chances with the gods and run when he had his freedom from Portaceae's borders, Herc keeps returning. I can hardly fathom such morality. Of course it may be the Herene drawing him back, but why bother with a frigid priestess when there are thousands of women all across Osteria who would gladly take my cousin into their beds? Truly unfathomable.

Absence kills remembrance, they say. The longer he is gone, the more his popularity will fade. People have short attention spans and they'll soon find another distraction.

I leave the bed chamber and jog back down the stairs. The servant woman stops her sweeping and tucks into the nearest corner. I snatch up the rock on my way to my study. After striking a match to light a candle, I mindlessly return to tossing the rock back and forth between my hands as I scan the wall map of Osteria.

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.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

### _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 outside 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 even 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."

By now, the counter man has brought us three more bowls of food. I pull out a coin to pay, but Minos pushes it back. Apparently one of the benefits of being the ruler of Minoa is a bottomless bowl at this eatery. We eat in silence and I ponder on what Minos has said. It now seems obvious Eury is gaining wealth for himself, but does he know about taking power from the gods? He owes his position to the gods. They gave him the luck to be born first. Would he dare to even think of overpowering one of them?

My stomach aches by the time we finish. I haven't eaten so heartily for weeks, but Minos seems accustomed to large meals as he takes our bowls from us and scrapes them clean with his spoon.

"I could eat all three of those pots in that counter. Did once, but I promised Yerni back there I wouldn't do it again. Now," he says standing up from the table, "old Frederic is yours, but you'll stay with me this night. There's no sense sleeping in the station when I have empty beds and too many rooms." Minos waves to the counter man. "Yerni, excellent slop today."

The man tips his head in thanks, then gives a sigh of relief once Minos turns toward the door. Iolalus and I gather our things, thank the counter man with the coin Minos didn't let me use earlier, then follow after the red-cloaked man.

The walk up the hill isn't far but takes three times as long as it should. Vendors, shoppers, and strollers keep stopping Minos to gossip with him, joke with him, and laugh with him. He never seems in a hurry and has a humorous comeback or concerned reply for every comment.

Minos's home is grander than anything I've seen, but not ostentatious like Eury's villa. This home is sparsely but tastefully decorated with a few well-placed pieces of high quality furniture in each room. The king's only extravagancies are a life-size statue of a bull in the spacious foyer and a few walls painted with decorative frescoes depicting dancing nymphs and battling centaurs.

"You should stay for the festival tomorrow. Rest up, enjoy Minoa before you head back to Portaceae," Minos offers. It's the hottest time of the afternoon, but we are relaxing comfortably drinking vintage wine from Illamos in the house's central courtyard as cool air wafts from a gurgling fountain.

Iolalus looks to me hopefully. "The letter didn't give a timeline."

I think of Iole watching us leave and imagine her with a joyful smile on her lips as she runs to greet us on our return. Then, barging in on the pleasant daydream, is Deianira harping on me and snatching at my groin. "No, it didn't and I've heard the festivals of Minoa shouldn't be missed," I say, remembering Stavros's descriptions during our long night together.

"Excellent," Minos says. "You won't want to leave once you've had a taste of Minoan life."

* * *

Truly, Minoan life is good. Despite the amount of food he ate only a few hours previous, in the evening Minos holds a full dinner attended by an array of people—young, old, wealthy, modest—that lasts well into the night. The food, like Minos himself, is plentiful but not elaborate, flavorful but not rich, and well-loved by all. This event is apparently a monthly occurrence in Minoa and allows the Minoan people a chance to discuss issues and grievances with their leader.

At this month's dinner, little of the talk focuses on Minoa—a matter that disappoints me since I wonder what people could possibly find amiss in this kingdom. Instead of dwelling on their own land and politics, the guests are filled with curious questions about Portaceae, about The Twelve, and about the governance of the poli that Iolalus and I answer as best we can. Although the Minoans carry an air that their way is better, they never criticize our responses and never insult our ways. Such a conversation would never occur in Portaceae where the gods are held to high esteem and where we cling stubbornly to our beliefs and way of life regardless how little it gains us.

The next morning, my gut still aches with fullness and I only take small portions of eggs and fruit from the buffet of food Minos's household has laid out. Even Iolalus, who can eat men twice his size under the table, picks at his food like a woman forcing herself to lose weight.

"You Portaceans have tiny bellies," Minos jests as he pushes a forkful of fried potatoes into his mouth.

"If wars were won based on how much a man can eat, all of Osteria would be called Minoa," I concede as I force a grape into my mouth.

Minos enjoys the observation with a hearty chortle and tips his cup of tea to me. "What a world that would be where forks and spoons took the place of arrows and swords."

* * *

The festivities of the Earthshaker are marvelous and throughout the day I can't help but think how much Iole would enjoy them. In the Minoan arena—which dwarfs Portaceae's—young men dance among young bulls. Full of vigor, both man and beast chase one another around the arena. When a bull gets too close, the men turn and leap over the backs of the animals. Some men merely vault over, but others earn cheers from the crowd as they perform back flips and cartwheels over the beasts' backs. In another area of the city, a maze has been erected. Those who spend too long making their way through are flogged with a whip of feathers by a man in a bull's head mask. In small pens erected in the squares throughout the city, young boys chase and try to catch calves that have been slicked with oil much to the crowd's amusement.

To complete the day's festivities, Frederic the bull is paraded through the main square, taken around the temple—twelve times I notice, even the kingdoms of Osteria who claim to have broken from worship of The Twelve still retain traces of the old religion. On the twelfth turn he's covered by a black sheet, led away, and another beast covered in a white sheet is brought to the temple. The white sheet is whisked away to reveal a bull painted half in black and half in gold. The people cheer the painted bull as Frederic, still under his cover, is led away with little fanfare. The message is clear, the old, familiar year is dead and best to be forgotten and now it's time to recognize the new year that may be plentiful or it may be poor.

By the time we arrive to Minos's house, we're well drunk on strong Minoan beer and the sky is already beginning to show the light of dawn. In the yard to the side of the house, Frederic sleeps letting out heavy snores and completely unaware that he's been cast aside for a younger bull.

It's late morning before anyone in the house wakes. My head aches and my stomach feels like it's been filled with a hot, gurgling fountain. Iolalus moves carefully as if every step hurts and looks as terrible as I feel. Minos, however, appears ready for another day of revelry and I have no doubt that as soon as the shop opens, he'll be gulping down Yerni's stew.

With cheerful and sincere tidings, Minos sends us on our way with heavy satchels of food in packs that we drape over Frederic's back. The bull, complacent as any animal can be, follows us without pause. Once to the station, we load him onto a cargo car, but as soon as the door shuts, he lets out a low, moaning sound as pitiful as any child's cry.

I look to Iolalus and my thoughts must be plain on my face.

"No, I'm not riding back there," he protests. "Three days. Do you know what that car's going to smell like in three days?"

"We can let him out at stops."

"We can't leave the stations. Where are we going to take him?"

"Here, then." I hand him his travel pass. He takes it with a challenging thrust of his chin. I pull open the cargo door and climb inside.

"Fine," Iolalus concedes as he rolls his bloodshot eyes. He stuffs his travel pass in the pouch on his belt and pulls himself into the car. "But they're laying down extra straw before we go. Sacred bulls still shit, you know."

I spend much of the journey with Frederic at my side. When I stand to walk about the car, he follows me in tight circles. When I sit, he rests his head in my lap.

"He's going to stab you in the sausage with those horns," Iolalus says.

"He's careful with them," I reply as I ruffle the soft fur behind the bull's ears.

* * *

The sun is nearly set by the time the train pulls into Portaceae. Ours will be the last train allowed in the city today and the station's gate slams shut startling Frederic from his slumber. I think of taking Frederic to the House of Hera, but I fear Euphemia's wrath if he disturbs her carefully raked paths.

"We should take him to Eury," I suggest hoping Iolalus will talk me out of it.

"Best to get it over with," he says quietly as he strokes the bull's back and we wait to have our travel permits checked.

The time it takes for us to convince the station guards that Frederic is indeed for Eury, gives the sky and streets a chance to darken. With Eury's curfew in place, we avoid attracting a crowd of followers on our way to and up the Solonian Hill. Leaving Frederic with Iolalus, I climb the steps up to the house's porch and pound on the front entry. Baruch opens the door and his eyes flick from me to the bull. An exasperated expression crosses his regal, angular face.

"Wait here." He closes the door and I go back down to Frederic who gives a low rumble in greeting.

Several moments later, Eury flings open the door with one hand as he ties the sash of a silk robe with his other. Adneta bounces up behind him and gives a little squeal of joy when she sees Frederic.

"Sorry to leave you waiting, cousins." Eury pulls Adneta to him and drapes his arm around her so his hand cups around one of her breasts. "I had business to complete."

"Your bull," I say curtly. Frederic nuzzles his head under my hand and I rub him behind the ears.

"As I see. Take the thing to the temple. The sacrifice will be tomorrow. Adneta and I will feast on the beast tomorrow night."

Frederic nudges my hip. A protective rage sears through me.

"You can't sacrifice him. He's a sacred animal, not for slaughter," I insist. My hands clench causing me to pull Frederic's fur. He shakes his head as if fending off a fly.

"He's going to be killed. It's part of the task," Eury says with a sneering smirk on his lips.

"It doesn't say that." I reach in my pouch for the letter. I rip it out and shake it at Eury. "It said to bring you the bull of Minoa. Bring it to you. Not to let it be killed."

"Well, I've changed my mind. I want you to bring me the bull and I want _you_ to sacrifice it. Or have you grown more attached to some creature than you have your life. Or Iolalus's life?" I refuse to respond to his threat. "After all, we need to appease the gods so they can protect Portaceae from the Areans. I've been telling everyone how the great Hercules Dion will bring a beast to save us all. You wouldn't want to deny them their superstitious rituals, would you?"

"It's stronger walls and armed vigiles we need, not a dead bull," Iolalus urges.

"Perhaps, but a dead bull can't hurt. And don't forget, Iole will die too if you fail to do this. After all, you didn't drag her to the woods of Cedonia. She volunteered, placing herself under the same laws as yourself and Iolalus."

"You bastard," I mutter. I grip Frederic's lead and storm off. Unsure of what is going on, Frederic remains still. The lead yanks tight and I tug on it to get him moving. Eury lets out a cruel laugh as I struggle with the stubborn animal. Finally, Iolalus nudges Frederic in the rump and the bull gets the hint to move.

"What will you do?" Iolalus asks once we've reached the bottom of the hill.

"Wait with him at the temple. I won't leave him there alone."

At the gates, Iolalus delivers a half-hearted insult to his friend Odysseus who slips the gate tender a coin to open the gate just enough for me and the bull to squeeze through. I urge Iolalus to hurry back to the House before the Solonian Guards accuse him of breaking curfew, but he pauses to nuzzle his head against Frederic's. His throat catches when he mutters goodbye to "dumb old Freddie."

I pass through the gates and walk with heavy steps to the temple that seems a lifeless thing after the activity surrounding the temple of Minoa.

I approach the altar, but don't walk around it. On the opposite side of where I stand is the blood crime vault. Even without seeing it, the idea of being so close to the thing sends shivers along my arms and legs. With only a sliver of a moon low on the horizon lighting the temple, Hera's statue appears to loom at the back reminding me of the Nemean lion hiding in his cave waiting to attack. I scratch at the back of my neck to press down the hairs that have pricked up.

I sit with my back to the temple. After several turns, Frederic eases himself down behind me. I doze for a while resting against his back. In what seems like only a moment, the moon has risen high in the sky and the sound of tiny bells jangles rhythmically nearby. Appearing brighter than if lit by a full moon, a silvery horse approaches bearing a pale rider dressed all in white.

Without a word to explain how she has made it through the gates of the city after dark, Iole slides off her horse and settles in beside me. I wrap my arm around her waist and she pulls my cloak tighter to her. A warmth burns from within me as we drift to sleep with Frederic snoring softly behind us.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

### _Eury_

IN THE MORNING, Baruch dresses me in my ceremonial clothes and drives me and Adneta to the temple as the guards trot behind us. Adneta wears one of her new gowns that have been designed in the style of the one Iole wore on Herc's wedding day, but I have to admit that the Herene pulled the look off better. On Adneta, the dress clings too tightly and reveals what should be seductively hidden. Still, I can't complain about the sight of my wife's breasts practically falling out of the bodice.

I had wanted to shout after Herc when he stormed off last night. It is against protocol for anyone to leave my presence without being dismissed, but I was too pleased with my own cleverness to quibble over details. I truly hadn't carried any notions of killing the bull when I created the task. I only wanted Herc out of Portaceae and was simply going to let a little blood and call it a sacrifice well done. But when I watched the animal nuzzling up to Herc like a stray dog and observed the pleased expression on Herc's face at the gesture, well, if Hera thinks she has the monopoly on cruelty toward my cousin, she has completely misjudged me.

At the edge of the temple grounds, Baruch has to slow the carriage to press through the crowd of people who have gathered. The laws of the temple state they can't come within a hundred paces of the altar; the boundary being marked by a row of low lavender hedges. But the people have pressed up to the shrubs and now peer over one another, squeezing smaller folks in front and hoisting children on shoulders to see the show the blazing rumor mill of Portaceae must have announced.

_Well, a show they will get. _

Baruch halts the carriage twenty paces from the altar. There, Herc and Iole stand on opposite sides of the beast with somber faces made darker by a bank of grey clouds that have gathered over night. Iolalus stands in front of the bull holding his hand out while the animal moves its massive head up and down as if it doesn't understand the concept of how to be pet.

I stride up to the front of the altar with Adneta by my side. Iole steps away from the beast to join us, but makes no effort to move quickly or to acknowledge her Solon and Solonia. Even her grooming shows a lack of respect. Her hair, which normally hangs so perfectly, has been tied into a quick, loose braid.

"I'd think you could have taken some time with your appearance," I say.

"We need to have a meeting, Eury. Soon. Please let me know when you'll grace me with your presence so I can be sure to meet your expectations of how a Herene should look before you arrive." She gives an insincere curtsey, holding my gaze with a defiant gleam in her eye.

"Another meeting. Wonderful. I'll be certain to check my schedule." The irksome little Herene has been trying to arrange a meeting since my festivities ended. Of course, I know it's going to be about money, and since I have none left, I see no point in holding a discussion about it. To halt her tongue that threatens to wag again, I announce in a loud voice so all can hear, "People of Portaceae, these are terrible times. Hera seems to not care for us as she should and has allowed our borders to be invaded. So, it is to the other gods we sacrifice the blood of this bull in the hopes they will honor us with their protection."

A few people cheer, but the majority of them shift about casting uneasy looks at one another. Mutters and whispers dance across the temple yard and echo through the temple back onto me. Are they worried because I've called on other gods to come to Portaceae's aid in front of Hera's temple? Superstitious fools.

I pull a dagger from my belt, present it on its side to Iole who hesitates before touching it with the tip of her finger to give it her blessing. I move to the side of the bull. As Solon, I should be the one to make the sacrifice, but I have no intention of bloodying myself. I only want to watch Herc's discomfort before I have one of guards finish the task. Herc refuses to look at the creature, staring instead at his feet as his jaw grinds back and forth.

When I put the blade to the bull's throat, I glance at my hulking cousin from the corner of my eye and nearly laugh at the sight of his wet cheeks. It's too tempting an opportunity to pass by. I whip the knife away, flip it around, and hold the handle out to him. It takes a great effort to maintain my feigned solemnity and to not break out in laughter when I notice the tremble in his hands. I step in closer to him, giving the appearance that I'm kissing him on the cheek.

"You will do it or they will die," I whisper in his ear before backing away.

Herc grips the handle and steps up to the bull.

The audience has fallen into awed silence, but as Herc stands by the bull that keeps nudging into him, they begin to chant his name. He looks to Iole and then to Iolalus. A look of resignation passes over his face, but is quickly replaced by a stern expression of resolution. Only his quivering jaw betrays his resolve to complete the task.

As he places the blade to the animal's throat, the crowd grows louder with shouts and cheers for my cousin. Although ancient and sturdy, I fear the columns of the temple might collapse under the rumble of their praises. Herc wraps his left arm around the bull's neck as tears wash down his face. With the dagger in his right hand, he presses it to the creature's throat and whispers an apology to the stupid animal.

A crackling pop like a log bursting in a hearth sounds behind me. A flash of light silences the people's chants. My first thought is lightning as my eyes dart to the slate-colored clouds above the temple. The audience drops to their knees with their heads bowed. Herc's hand releases the knife and he too collapses to his knees to join Iolalus who is already on the ground.

_You've got to be kidding._

I spin around, nearly crashing into Adneta in my angry haste. Behind us, on the temple steps stands Hera with her eyes narrowed and her mouth pinched so tight her facial muscles are quivering.

"Leave this bull," Hera commands.

"But it's a sacrifice to you, my goddess," I lie.

"No, it does too much honor to him." She juts an elegant finger at Herc. "Not to you, not to me. Do you think these people came here today for you? No, they came to watch the hero who obtained this beast, who will sacrifice it, and who will win their respect. He does not deserve such glory."

I don't give a god's eye whether the bull is killed or not, but I will not be ordered about like this in front of my people.

"He will kill it. Do it," I order Herc, "or you will have failed this task."

Herc stands up, glances from me to Hera, then takes the dagger and turns back to the bull. The animal hums as my cousin pets its muzzle. Herc then flips the dagger in a deft motion so the blade is in his hand. Hera makes a noise as if to speak, but Herc turns and offers me the hilt of the dagger.

"I cannot go against a god's wish. Do what you will."

I look about hoping to see fear in the faces of Iole and Iolalus, but they stare at me with angry defiance.

"Guards," I shout. My throbbing nose feels ripe enough to burst. "Arrest the three of them. Dig a hole and bury them this instant."

The guards jog up. Hera steps directly into their path and holds up her hand in a stop gesture. The guards, their momentum already on them too greatly to halt, fall back as if they've hit a wall.

"He has completed the task you set out in writing," she says. "He, nor they will be condemned." She moves in closer to me, speaking in a low conspirator's tone. "You and I are of the same mind, Eury, you know that, but you will not dishonor my polis, nor my temple with falsehoods and petty acts."

She glides over to the bull and pierces the flesh of its ear with her fingernail. The bull flicks its ear once, but shows no other sign of minding the injury.

Hera pinches the bull's ear between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. Holding out the tip of her other hand's index finger, she catches the light trickle of blood that drizzles out. With a flick of her wrist, the blood splatters onto the altar.

"There. The sacrifice is done. Leave the bull at the edge of Forested Park where it will live out its life. We are done with this," she says as she gives me a scolding look of disapproval. "Have you another task up your sleeve, Solon?"

I don't need to think. In Herc's absence I've pondered over my map dreaming of how far I can send him, what danger I can put him in.

"The horses of Diomedes. The creatures are needed for battle. He leaves today."

"No," a shrill voice calls. Deianira has snaked her way through the crowd. She dares to go beyond the lavender boundary and weasels her way up to our little group like an audience member stepping uninvited into a scene of a play. "My husband needs to come home for a night."

"If he stays the night, I'm certain he'll choose to spend it in the House of Hera," I say with contempt. I'm in no mood to deal with this woman's marital woes. "That's the law according to our head priestess. You'll have to take the matter up with her if you want him to stay with you."

Deianira looks to Iole. Scorn etches into her thin face, but also doubt. "He can come to me today, then. Before he leaves. You will, won't you?" she asks him in a pathetic pleading tone.

Herc's face strains. It's clear to even the blindest man in Portaceae that he's making every effort to not look at Iole as he fixes his eyes on his wife in an unblinking stare.

"I must ready myself. If I have the time, I'll—"

Her face ignites with rage. "Make the time," Deianira demands before storming off.

"I'll see your papers are sent to the House of Hera," I say to Herc. "No doubt you'll be there."

Herc gives a curt nod and leads the bull away. Iolalus remains behind glaring at me.

"Don't you have a cousin to follow?" I ask with a dismissive wave.

"I'll escort Iole home." He turns to her. "Are you ready?"

Iole glances to Hera. Something passes between the two of them. A harsh glare from the mother. A quick downturn of the eyes from the daughter.

"Well?" Hera asks impatiently. "Explain yourself."

"I love him," Iole whispers.

Hera's face softens for just a heartbeat. Then, as if someone has pulled strings at the back of her head, Hera's face tightens once more to her usual stern expression.

"And perhaps he you, but it will not be. You are a Herene, he is a husband. You each have your duties. You know what will happen if you forget them. Do not think because you are my daughter that I will turn a blind eye to any vow-breaking deeds you commit. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, mother."

Hera shoots me one of her harshest glares as Iole swings up onto a white mare. Iolalus takes the reins and guides the horse to the boundary hedge and through the crowd that bows their heads to her. I hook my arm into Adneta's and we stroll to my carriage leaving Hera standing alone before her temple.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

### _Iole_

ONCE BACK TO the House, Iolalus offers to take my horse as if he knows the absence of Cy still pains me whenever I go to the stables. I dismount and nuzzle my face into the mare's neck enjoying the delicate sound of the bells jostling in her mane. I then retreat to my rooms, climbing each stair on unsteady legs. My mother's words have shaken me to the bone. I can still feel the implied threat as if I've been pierced with one of Herc's arrows. Her message to me is clear: Both Herc and I will die if we go any further with our love.

But how can I be expected just to slaughter my emotions? My yearning for him, to feel his lips on mine, to have him touch my skin burns strong enough to make me want to break my vows regardless the consequences.

Inside my office, I hear the beads of Maxinia's abacus clicking against one another. I do not want company so I curl into the window seat of the hallway. I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts that, although I stare at the courtyard, I don't truly see the routine activities taking place down there.

I've always been content with my career as a Herene and haven't regretted for one moment the agreement I made with my mother, but now every part of me hates my position and that pact. Still, I can't risk Herc's life for my desires. Although I have a feeling my mother sympathizes with me, Hera bears little enough love for Herc and will not overlook his neglect of his wife simply because she pities my heart's desire. And, of course, my mother would never forgive a woman, not even her own daughter, who took a man from his wife. As much as I hate the thought, I must stop my feelings before they take me, or him, any further down a dangerous path. I would rather be cruel to Herc and send him to another woman's arms than to have him die for my foolishness.

Unable to sit still with my thoughts, I pace the hall, dashing to the window every time I hear footsteps on the courtyard gravel. The first time is only Euphemia with her rake. The second turns out to be a scuffle between two of the peacocks that brings Euphemia back again brandishing her tool at the troublesome birds. On the third look, I expect to see Euphemia yet again tidying the walkways, but am rewarded with the sight of Herc.

Iolalus stands in front of Herc pointing to the gate. Herc makes a downward thrusting motion with his hand, then points up to my rooms. The argument draws a mix of sharp, wary, and curious glances from the women in the courtyard. Iolalus appears to be pleading something, but Herc is having none of it. In a final commanding thrust of his chin, it seems Herc has ended the debate. Leaving Iolalus standing there, Herc marches off to the guest quarters' stairwell.

I watch through the window until I see Herc return to the courtyard with his weapons and travel pack, disappear to the work area behind the House, and then reappear in the courtyard on his chestnut. My throat clenches with emotion as he turns to look up to my rooms before he passes through the Peacock Gate. Euphemia hobbles in the wake of the great horse, dragging her rake over the disturbed gravel.

* * *

While Herc travels to this newest task, I spend the days writing messages to Eury to fix a meeting. Most of my notes he refuses to answer, others he replies to with poor excuses of why he can't attend. First, he claims his wife is ill although I had just seen her that morning in the agora with the servant Baruch. Next, his carriage is being repaired to which I reply he should just walk into the city center—a reply that receives no response. Then, he apparently gives up coming up with clever reasons and simply gives the excuse that he is too busy. In frustration, I tear his reply into a hundred tiny pieces.

And each evening, I mope in my window seat, while each night I lose myself in pointless musings of Herc and myself.

On the third morning after Herc's departure, I am attempting to write out another note to Eury, but keep finding myself lost in my own thoughts so that an hour after sitting down to the task, I've only completed a single line. A knocking at the door breaks my reverie. Maxinia answers it.

After quickly scanning the room, Iolalus, grinning his infectious grin that lightens my dark mood instantly, makes a beckoning motion with his hand and whispers, "Come on. You too, Maxinia."

"What's going on?" I ask as I push my unfinished letter aside.

"The feed is on."

"That's against the Solon's order," Maxinia says mischievously.

"Which is why the bells aren't ringing. This is by invitation only and Eury's not on the list of guests."

It's a risk to go directly against Eury's orders by showing the feed and against the law to call a gathering at the arena without involving the Solon, but my irritation with Eury and my desire to see Herc vetoes any law-abiding sense I have left. Iolalus and I head down the stairs to the courtyard with Maxinia close behind.

"What did you and Herc argue about the day he left?" I ask as we join the line of people moving along the Hera Way in the direction of the arena.

"I wanted to go with him and he refused to let me."

"But why? I know the roads are filled with bandits, but the journey to Diomedes's holdings isn't any more dangerous than traveling to the other tasks."

"It's not me he was worried about. He wanted me to stay to protect you."

Before I can recover from what he says or think of a clever reply, we are swarmed in by a crowd of people coming from a side street. With Maxinia gazing over everyone's heads, she guides us to a section of the street where we can move without being jostled by Portaceans excited to see their hero once again.

"I'll meet you at the back entrance when this is over," Iolalus says as we near the main arena gate. A long line has already formed for seating in the stands. The whole situation could erupt into brawls or riots, but, to my surprise, the people are being patient about waiting their turn to enter as the line slowly inches its way through the entrance.

"Don't be stupid. You'll join us in the box," Maxinia says, causing me to gape at her in disbelief. It may be her size or her devotion to the accounts, but I've always taken her as a stickler for the rules, and men are never allowed in the Herenes' box.

"Thanks, Maxinia," Iolalus says as he reaches up to throw his arm around her waist. She blushes and shoves his arm aside. I've been too lost in my own concerns to notice the friendship that has formed between them. But then again, who could help but like Iolalus?

The crowd is so thick it takes an unusual amount of time to push our way through to the back entrance. I breathe a sigh of relief that Eury's carriage is nowhere in sight. If he discovers a gathering has been called without his notice, there will be no containing his fury. By the time we climb the stairs and settle into the Herenes' box seat, the screen is already lit up. Centered on it is Herc riding his chestnut.

"How is this coming through?" I ask.

As if on cue, the shot swings in a dizzying arc from Herc to the hawkish face of Altair.

"He took him and not me?" Iolalus blurts in amused disappointment.

"Stavros," Altair says to the lens, "I hope you're getting this. Ladies and gentlemen of Portaceae, I present to you, your hero, Herc Dion." The camera zips back around to Herc. "By the way, I'm officially cargo if anyone asks." The audience gives a polite giggle. "Herc was reluctant to let me come along, but I think I'm growing on him. Right, Herc?"

Herc looks into the lens. His deep blue eyes glow against his olive skin. With a wry smile he says, "Like a canker sore."

This time the audience hoots with laughter. Something needles me like a child who dares to defy her parents but who cannot enjoy the rebellion for fear of possible punishment. The feed is supposed to be cut off. Everyone in the arena, myself included, is committing treason. I shift in my seat and can't help but check Eury's box every time a sound comes from its direction.

"What?" Iolalus asks.

"The feed. If Eury knows this is being shown—"

"What? He'll put the entire city into the blood crime vault? He can't punish everyone, they'll be out of here in a heartbeat."

"And us?" I ask.

"Crowd control." He gives an innocent shrug that makes me laugh despite my fears. "The trumpets will announce him. If we hear them, we can tuck further back into the box seat where he won't see us. Now, stop worrying and enjoy the show."

I try to do as he advises, but find it impossible to keep my eyes from drifting to Eury's box whenever Herc isn't on the screen.

"And what are we up today?" Altair asks. "It better be good since you've denied our audience the excitement of seeing a fair number of your latest adventures."

"Getting some flesh-eating horses. Four of them."

"Flesh. Eating," Altair says pausing over each syllable. All confidence has vanished from his voice.

"Did you want to turn back? Because I'm not forcing you. You're the one who asked to come along."

"Um, no," the cameraman says unconvincingly. "I'm here to share your deeds with Portaceae. They've missed too much for me to back down now." The view swings around again to Altair's long face. "People of Portaceae, you owe me one." The view changes back to Herc.

"And where is your trusty companion Iolalus? Plenty of girls want to see him on the big screen too."

Several eyes from the audience look up at Iolalus. His cheeks turn as red as his hair, but he gives a confident wave that earns him a cheer.

On screen, Herc pauses, the wry smile creeping up again. He stares directly into the lens and I feel as if he's looking straight into my own eyes.

"He's guarding a precious object I'm already missing."

My eyes duck away from the screen and my face blazes as hot as Iolalus's had a moment ago. After the fluster, perturbed resolve pulses through me. Herc can't continue like this and the matter must be settled on his return.

We watch as Herc enters into the territory of Diomedes—a region that is neither polis nor kingdom to our north in the land dividing Portaceae from the polis of Helena. Despite being the middle of the day and sunny in Portaceae City, fog drapes over distant trees and shrouds the surrounding hillsides in grey.

The view changes to Herc's back as he and Altair travel on an unpaved forest path wide enough for only a single horse. As the trees thin, they're replaced by jagged stones that spread out as far as the camera can fit into its view. Many of the stones nearest the path stick straight up in needle-thin projections. One fall, one misstep, and the landscape itself could kill a person who dares to travel through it.

With the forest behind them, it's as if the area has consumed every color of life and every scrap of beauty. Instead of low-growing ground cover, ferns, or fields of wildflowers, skeletons of thorny shrubs litter the stony landscape. Eventually the fog lifts, but the sky remains covered in a thin layer of ashen clouds.

"Who chooses to live in a place like that?" Iolalus asks reflecting my own thoughts.

The path widens and Altair rides up alongside Herc. As they approach a stone house, the surrounding stones and pathway transition from jagged daggers to flat angled slabs stacked over one another like a pack of cards discarded by a giant. As the horses gingerly make their way over the stones, the camera angles wildly followed by the hollow bang of rock hitting rock.

"You okay?" Herc asks.

"It's not exactly the easiest surface to get a horse over."

From behind the house the camera picks up the snorts and cries of angry horses.

Herc dismounts and walks to the door of the house with Altair following close behind keeping Herc in focus. Before Herc has the chance to knock, an old man jerks open the door. The man appears about seventy but is not unkempt or stooped. His silver hair is combed back, a fresh tunic is cinched at his trim waist, and on his feet are familiar knee-high leather boots. At his neck dangles a peacock charm

"A vigile," Iolalus says in a hushed tone.

"What d'ya want?" The old man asks with not even a fraction of a welcome in his voice.

"Hera protect Portaceae," Herc says in greeting.

"No she doesn't. It's why I don't live there no more. Now, what d'ya want?" He fires a stern look to the camera. "What is that thing?"

"I want your horses," Herc says ignoring the question.

"He's asking?" I whisper.

"It worked with Frederic."

"You don't want those things. They'll eat you alive and then beg for more." He waggles a stump of a wrist at Herc to emphasize his point. "They can't be tamed and they don't want to be tamed."

"Any horse can be tamed," Herc counters. The old man gives a mocking snort and rolls his eyes.

"Not the way I trained 'em. Unless you've got some extra human flesh you're hoping to get rid of, you can't subdue them."

"Why would you train them like that?" Herc asks.

"Keeps most smart people away. Now, the beasts haven't eaten in a few days, do you want to have a look closer at 'em?"

"I'm good here," Altair replies.

"How much do they eat?" Herc asks changing his tone from judgmental to conversational.

"One person will satisfy them. They quarter their kills. Amazing ornery critters hate people but treat each other as equals. But just 'cause they're satisfied don't mean they won't still attack. Satisfied does not mean stuffed. It takes at least three people for that. Closer look, then?"

"Please," Herc agrees. A worried groan sounds from behind the camera. Altair keeps Herc and Diomedes in his view as they walk around the house.

"He can't be that stupid," Iolalus says. "What's he up to?"

I can't respond. I can't even blink.

"We could use steeds like yours in the fight against the Areans. I'd like to learn to train a few of Portaceae's horses to have a similar taste for blood. How did you turn them into carnivores?" Herc asks as Diomedes ushers them around the back of the house. Herc watches each step the man takes and places his foot in the same spot. Altair sways a few times when he misses the balance point of the unsteady slabs sending the stones tilting and clattering back into place as the view wobbles sickeningly on the screen.

"Started 'em when they were born. Took 'em from Poseidon's own herd and gave 'em blood instead of milk. Later I switched 'em to rat meat. Ran out of rats right quick. I beat 'em so they'd hate men and fed 'em the flesh of trespassers. It don't take long to destroy the nature of even the best bred animal. After they've eaten is the only time they can be dealt with. They're still mean as a hornet's nest, but if you're quick, you can get a bridle on 'em."

"It's wrong to beat an animal," Altair says, his voice filled with unconcealed hatred.

Diomedes turns back, his face lit with amusement. "Well, they don't know no different so they don't know it's mean."

My stomach lurches and I want to run back to the stables to my own silver mare, to pet her, and give her an apple and new straw bedding. I wonder how my old mare and the other horses taken from the Herene stables are doing under Eury's care, but know even if their tending isn't as good as what they received under Cy, it won't be anywhere near as bad as this man describes. Even if our city is a ruin, Portaceans treat animals like gods themselves.

Not far beyond the house is a corral with posts that somehow have been set into the rocky landscape. Inside are four horses that, despite the streaks of scars across their backs and rumps, look healthy and prance about with their hooves clipping against the stones that bang back into place as the horses dance across them. From the way they repeatedly canter over the same spot to recreate the noise, it appears as if they enjoy the sounds they're making.

"Do they have names?" Herc asks.

"The cream one is Blondie, the white one is Shine, the pinto is Blaze, and the roan is Trouble."

When the horses hear their names coming from Diomedes's lips, they stop their game and charge toward him. Making a sliding stop, they halt only inches from the fence. Their eyes bulging with ingrained fury, they rear and snort at their master.

Diomedes bears a pleased grin on his face like a father watching his child receiving a school honor. "Hate these animals and they hate me. Yeah, curse on you too, ya ugly nags," he shouts.

Altair pans to Herc possibly looking for his reaction to the sight of the horses. But Herc's gaze is focused on something at the far end of the corral. The camera follows his look and zooms in. A rail post at the far edge of the corral tilts, possibly from being knocked into during the horses' game or from a recent quake.

Herc strolls slowly around the corral. Diomedes follows as Herc continues asking questions about the ages of the horses, their parentage, what other training they've had, and other horse-related small talk until they near the bad post. All the while, the horses have traced their steps like mountain lions stalking the two men. The animals communicate in huffing whinnies that sound eerily like growls. Herc stops and angles his body in a way that causes Diomedes to turn his back to the post to face his guest as they speak.

"He shouldn't fall for that," Iolalus comments.

"What?" I ask and then realize I haven't checked Eury's box since Diomedes appeared on screen. I flick my gaze there now. Still empty.

"What Herc's doing. It's a trick you learn in vigile training. You keep the person focused on you so they don't notice the obvious. Typically, the obvious thing is another vigile waiting to take the person from behind by surprise. Then, you shift your body so it's angled just the right way to have you facing your partner. Since people naturally want to face each other when talking, the person you're after will turn their back on the hidden vigile to keep facing you. They'll be so worried you might be trying to trick them, they forget to guard their back. Herc doesn't have an extra vigile. He has that sketchy post and those horses. Still, this guy should know better."

As if Iolalus's words have been spoken into Diomedes's ear, the man's stern face dawns with the realization of his mistake. He narrows his eyes at Herc and makes a move to step away, but his timing isn't quick enough.

Blaze stretches his neck as far as it will reach. With a gaping chomp he bites into the flesh of Diomedes's upper arm. The man tries to jerk away, but the horse sinks its teeth in deeper as Trouble's head reaches through the bottom rail of the corral and latches onto Diomedes's ankle.

Although I feel as if every sound has been sucked from my lungs, the crowd in the arena screams in a horrifying pitch. I throw my hands over my ears and am certain that the noise of the audience's terror must be loud enough to reach the top of the Solonian Hill.

Herc slowly backs away from the scene. Altair has already taken five paces back and each clatter of the rocks under his feet makes the audience, myself included, jump.

Blondie charges over to Diomedes, pushing her way between the two stallions and presses against the skewed post with her head. Once, twice she shoves. On the third time it collapses onto Diomedes pinning him under a portion of the fence. The wood rail scrapes against Trouble's muzzle and he backs away neighing angrily. Shine prances through the opening left by Trouble, rears up, and comes down with his front hooves on Diomedes's head. Diomedes's screams stop instantly, but the noise is quickly replaced with the horses' wild whinnies of excitement. Blondie and Shine lick up the mess oozing from the crushed skull as normal horses do when given a comb of honey.

Diomedes is right, the horses do quarter their kill and they take no time mourning their tormenter. Trouble, the largest of the four, drags Diomedes out from under the railing. Once the body is free, each horse grasps a limb with its teeth and then backs away, pulling the carcass taut as it hangs above the ground like a gruesome awning. Another backwards step brings the flesh-crawling sounds of ripping tendons and popping bones. The crowd releases a collective gasp of horror and some women duck their heads into their men's shoulders to avoid the sight on the screen.

Another step and the body, now longer and looser than before, begins tearing along the skin at the shoulders. The next step breaks the body apart and the horses stagger back after the sudden release sending the slabs of stone tilting and crashing back into place. They quickly recover from their falter and each snatches up the nearest piece of Diomedes, tossing the flesh in the air and playing with it like cats with mice before settling into their meal.

The camera angle tilts to the ground and the arena is filled with the sound and sight of Altair vomiting.

"Sorry you had to see that, ladies and gents," Altair says in a queasy voice.

The horses eat and, as Diomedes said they would, seem to mellow as the scraps of their cruel owner disappear. The shreds of the tunic and belt he had worn litter the corral, but otherwise the horses have eaten everything, even the man's boots. Herc waits at the edge of the corral. After a time, the horses droop their heads and sway slightly in a glutton's slumber.

Herc steps into the corral. Worried faces fill the audience and one person shouts, "Get out of there!" Herc eases his way to the tunic and tears it into four strips. Approaching Trouble, who opens a lazy eye but then slides it closed again, Herc gently wraps the animal's bloody muzzle with one of the strips. The horse stirs, setting off another gasp from the crowd, but seems not to mind the binding of his mouth.

As Herc nears Blondie, shouting fills the arena. I jolt, scanning the screen for what I might have missed then jerk my head to Eury's box. Still empty. It takes a moment for me to realize the yells aren't coming from the audience, but through the speakers spaced around the arena.

"There, in the control room," Iolalus says. "The microphone in there must be on."

"Turn it off," commands a familiar voice.

"The people want to see it. They deserve—" An older man's voice with an Athenian accent is cut off by what sounds like someone pounding a piece of meat.

"Turn it off," grunts Eury.

"Yes, Excellency," a younger man says, his voice trembling with fear.

"And you," Eury yells as another punch smacks across the sound system. "Treason to disobey me." Another wet pounding sound. "Open the windows. Traitors need to be dealt with." The large window of the control room swings open as the screen turns black.

"Excellency, no, he's a good—"

The words of the younger voice stop abruptly. The crowd lets out a collective gasp of shock as a body flies from the control room window. Someone falls from the same height as the box I'm sharing with Maxinia and Iolalus. As he falls he flails his arms as if he might suddenly be given the gift of flight.

But the gods refuse to bless the man with wings. In a whooshing thump, he crashes face first onto the sandy floor of the arena. His body gives a jerking twist and then shudders into death. Iolalus is on his feet at once. I hurry after him as he dashes down the stairs, calling vigiles to him. From out of nowhere several vigiles heed the order and race with us up the stairs to the control room.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

### _Eury_

I'M IN THE agora when I learn of the treason. In a pointless attempt to win favor with the people, I decided to mingle in the marketplace. But when I arrive, hardly a soul can be found. A few beggars, some vendors closing up their carts, and a young couple locked in a kiss—probably taking advantage of the absence of parental onlookers. I'm about to head back to the carriage waiting for me around the corner when my ears are assaulted by shouts coming from the arena.

A vendor pushes his cart of roasting nuts past me without even acknowledging his Solon. I clutch his arm, jerking him to a stop and sending a pile of hazelnuts spilling to the ground.

"You son of a—" He cuts off his curse with a bow. "Solon, my apologies."

"What's going on? Where is everyone?" His plump jowls shake as his mouth dribbles out hesitant sounds. "Out with it. Where is everyone?"

"In the arena. Herc's being shown again. I didn't go. I honor the ban. I wouldn't—"

"Shut up," I say and release his arm with a hard shove.

The outrage. Haven't I ordered the feed to be cut off? Haven't I expressly commanded no more of Herc on the screen, no more celebrating him, no more of their hero worship. To take control of the feed without my permission, to call a gathering at the arena without informing me. An outrage. Who summoned them? How did they know to be there? It's as if they insist on defying me. To Hades with winning over these peoples' hearts.

No more. If they want a ruler, I will give them a ruler. One with a fist of stone. And the first order of business is to do away with the rebels.

"Guards!" In a heartbeat, four of my royal guards appear out of the shadows of the arcade around the agora. The vendor shuffles away as fast as possible. Crows and jays swoop down to fight over the hazelnuts, chestnuts, and peanuts that drop from his cart in his haste. "When you next see Altair Athos he is to be executed as a traitor. Is that understood?"

In unison, the men grunt a hearty assent and two of them march off to give orders to their comrades back at my villa. I beckon the remaining two to follow me to the arena. One goes in front and one takes up the rear as we march our way through the arena's back entrance and to the control room. Each step brings a rush of exhilaration and an invigorating sense of true power.

I pause at the door to speak to my guards.

"Stay on the alert inside, but let me handle the situation. I won't have it said I set armed guards on the men in here."

I indicate the door to one of the guards and he throws it open to reveal a room crammed with wires and panels filled with knobs and buttons. The guards rush in with me, shut the door behind, then spread out to block the exit. Orpheus Keros, a lanky man I recognize from his failed attempts at reconnecting the electricity to my villa, throws up his hands. He instantly steps back from the machinery, but another man, older and somewhat familiar begins yelling at me to leave.

"Turn it off," I shout over his rant. I step in closer, my hands already forming into tight fists.

"The people want to see it. They deserve—"

An Athenian. How dare an Athenian interfere in my polis? Without a thought, my fist crashes into his face. The connection sends a jolt of pain through my hand and up my arm. Soft bones crush under my punch and blood spurts from his nose. The man staggers back clutching his face.

"Turn it off," I command.

"Yes, Excellency." The thrill of hearing the tremble in Orpheus's voice erases any pain in my hand. I grab the older man by his tunic as Orpheus fumbles with switches.

"And you." I land another jab in the center of the man's face. He groans and his eyes flare with defiance, but he says nothing. "Treason to disobey me." Another fist to his face and his head swoons. "Open the windows," I shout to my guards. "Traitors need to be dealt with."

I drag the Athenian to the window and, seeing that the screen has gone black, give a satisfied snort. I hold the man at the window's ledge, teetering him over as I grip his tunic tighter.

"Excellency, no, he's a good—" Orpheus begs, but it's too late. The traitor's body is flying through the air over the arena. My feeling of power also soars. I turn to Orpheus. The guards have restrained him but he makes no effort to struggle against their hold. I step over to the bow-legged man and stare at him, evaluating him. His chin shakes and large tears fall over his red cheeks. I should have tossed Orpheus from that window as well, but even in my rage I know the limits of what I can get away with.

"Please don't—" His plea is cut off by pounding at the door.

I brush back my hair with my hand and straighten the silk robe I wear over my tunic before opening the door. A group of vigiles with Iolalus at their head looms before me. Iole joins their ranks, her face marred with irritation. My hand clenches back into a fist and an urge wells up in me to strike a blow into her face as I did with the Athenian. I can almost feel the crack of her teeth under my fist and it makes my head swim with giddiness.

But this is not the time. I release my fist.

"What is it?" I demand.

"Excellency, you are arrested for blood crime." The microphone must still be on because Iolalus's words echo across the arena.

"No, I'm not." The sound system sends my words reverberating back on me. "Would someone turn that microphone off?" The guards release Orpheus who presses a button with a shaky finger.

"Half the city witnessed what you've done," Iole says jutting her arm to indicate the scene outside the window. The stands are in mayhem. People are scrambling over one another in a panic to get out. If they know what's best for them, they will not want to be identified by me.

"Blood crimes are a peacetime law held to protect the citizens of a polis," I say. "Surely the head priestess and protector of Hera's laws knows that."

"You killed a man," Iolalus says.

"I killed an Athenian. We are at war. We must protect ourselves from foreigners. He may have been an enemy. He may have been working for the Areans. Have you considered that? I killed a potential enemy, not a citizen."

"He was working for us. His name was Stavros Paulos. He was employed by that man." She points to Orpheus who is wiping his eyes with a cloth. "Orpheus hired the man after his day of tribute service which he completed for the good of Portaceae."

"I was only protecting Portaceae as you asked me to do," I say with mock sincerity. I can see her working this out. Had I thrown Orpheus out the window I would indeed be facing a blood crime trial and possible execution, although my insistence that he was a traitor could go far. Luckily, a foreigner and one who has already been convicted for a crime does not count in the blood crime law during war time. I thank the gods for the Areans' blood and land lust. It does make killing anyone who gets in my way quite convenient. "Now, if you don't mind, I must think further of what is best for Portaceae with our hero's next adventure."

I move to leave the control room, but the vigiles block my way. I look to Iole. She glares at me a moment longer before stepping aside.

"He has the truth of the law. Let him go." The vigiles part before me and my guards, but before I make it past their hulking hall of muscle, Iole speaks again. "You have yet to meet with me, Your Excellency. I must insist on a meeting. Soon."

"I'll check my schedule."

I can feel her eyes boring holes into my back as I brush past the vigiles.

* * *

Three days later Herc arrives at my villa with the horses. With their mouths bound, they look pathetic, but Herc and Altair are patting their necks as if they're ordinary steeds. One nudges Herc forward as he faces me.

"They need to be contained and kept away from people," he says.

"Yes, yes, now hand them over."

Herc slaps the four leads into my palm. One of the horses, a pinto, nuzzles into my shoulder. I slap him across the nose not wanting his deadly mouth near me. The horse snorts and rears back. As if his anger is contagious, the other three animals begin rearing and snorting as well. Hooves and forelegs flail around my head as fetid horse breath envelopes me in its cloying humidity. When I raise my arms in defense, a roan comes down, nicking my forearm with his hoof.

"No beast touches me. No beast harms the Solon." I throw down the reins.

"Guards, kill these traitorous things."

"No, they only need—"

My cousin's words are cut off as my guards slash at the horses' necks. One guard is downed by a hoof that cracks his skull, but steel proves tougher than flesh and in only moments, the four beasts sprawl on the ground, their necks pulsing dark blood onto the grass.

"And him as well." I point to Altair who looks behind him as if I'm referring to a ghost hovering at his back. Before he can move, before he can even piss himself, one of the guards flings a dagger that spins end over end in rapid somersaults until its blade sinks into the cameraman's throat. He slumps down, gurgling out thick bubbles of blood. Herc drops to his knees, cradling the man like a lover, telling him over and over it will be alright. The man's eyes are a mix of wide fear and contented gratitude. After a final shudder, his eyes close.

Herc shakes with rage as he slowly pushes himself to his feet. Every muscle tenses and a vein in the center of his forehead looks about to burst. He holds his jaw clenched so tight it would be impossible for him to scream all the vile things I'm sure he wants to hurl at me. He looks to the horses then to his dead companion. My cousin leans over resting his hands on his thighs. He looks about to vomit, but instead he heaves out a heavy sob that seems to pull all air from his lungs. Another choking sound escapes him before he grips the camera then scoops up Altair's body in his arms. Without looking to me, Herc storms off in long heavy strides.

"Thank you," I call after him. "I'll be in touch."

A sudden sensation of being sucked through a narrow tube overwhelms me. Have I fainted? My vision blurs to the point I think I've gone blind. Is this death? I scream but no sounds escape my mouth. The sickening feeling slams to a halt as my body crashes onto a hard surface. I worry if I open my eyes, I will find myself in Hades's Chasm.

"What have you done?" A woman's angry voice demands. "You needed these animals. How dare you waste them?"

I risk a peek. I'm in the Gods' Room. I wobble slightly on shaky legs, but refuse to show any sign of weakness to Hera. She would enjoy it too much. I smooth my tunic and brush a hand over my hair forcing myself not to wince at the pain in my arm from the horse's attack.

"You could do that all along? You could have saved me a lot of stair climbing over the years, you know."

"What have you done, Eury?"

"The horses? Sacrifices. To you my goddess." I drop into a swift and deep bow.

"Unacceptable. I do not accept it."

"That's hardly gracious, is it?"

"You are making poor use of these tasks. He is not being shamed. He is not being humiliated. Despite your commands to the people, they aren't going to forget him. He is receiving cheers and support from all of Portaceae and completing each of these so-called challenges with ease. No more. We end this now. Send him from my House and to his wife."

As much as I know Herc will be miserable with his wife, I'm not about to give him up just yet. He will not escape these tasks, not when there are still treasures to be had and torments for him to face.

"We said ten labors. One didn't count, so he still has three to go. By your law, he must complete them," I argue.

"Continue defying me and you will not win."

"I? Defy you? I am merely upholding the agreement we put forth. You wouldn't want to be seen as a goddess who can't uphold her own promises, would you?"

Her eyes blaze and her brow furrows as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"There will be no more innocent deaths," she concedes before disappearing in a crackling flash of light.

"Thank the gods that war always brings innocent deaths." I mutter to myself.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

### _Herc_

I STORM AWAY from the sight of Eury and rest Altair's body over the back of his horse. The animal shies, but my chestnut nickers quietly then nuzzles his nose against the other's cheek. I grasp the reins of both horses in one hand and the camera in the other as I move blindly forward. My head reels in shock and I have to trust the horses to guide me to keep from wandering off the road and plunging straight off the side of the Solonian Hill.

Diomedes's horses, why the horses? And Altair? If I'd only just ordered him to go home instead of following me. With his children still in his mother's care, he had met me at the city gates and begged me to take him along insisting he needed to be away from his home where every scrap of furniture, every piece of cloth, and even the remains of a hunk of bread flooded him with misery over the loss of his wife. Remembering how it was after Meg died, I took pity on him and let him go with me. My pity has killed him.

His children have no father because of me. Gods, his children. What will they do now? The polis is certainly in no financial state to care for orphans. With every step down the hill I feel as if I'm treading on my own heart, crushing it under the hard leather of my sandals. I've gotten him and four fine horses killed. Gods curse me.

The journey back to Portaceae City had been a quiet one, except for a small incident about a mile outside of Diomedes's holdings. A group of bandits, perhaps five, surrounded us. They were nothing to fear. Each of the men looked as if they hadn't had a hearty meal for months and the cutlasses they rattled at us were spattered with rust. The weapons couldn't slice a pat of butter and the men wielding them wouldn't have the strength to drive the blades through wet bread.

I was certain they would try to take Altair's camera—besides the horses, it was the only thing of worth we carried. Whether they had no idea what the contraption was or whether they were too focused on the potential meals the horses might offer, they settled on demanding we hand over the beasts.

I refused.

"They're ours now, big man," a scruffy fellow who must have been posing as leader of the band said.

"Are you from around here?" I asked.

"What's it to ya if we are?"

"Do you know Diomedes?"

The men exchanged glances. Their expressions showed they knew of whom I spoke.

"Good," I continued. I wished Iolalus was with us. He was the one with the quick tongue and would have had these men feeling like a band of idiots in only two sentences, then befriending them in another two. I don't have his gift and had to hope threats would serve. "Then you know of his horses. His flesh-eating horses. These are those animals." I pointed to Blondie whose pale face highlighted the maroon stains of her last meal. "I only need to remove these bindings—" I raised my hand to the knot at Blaze's muzzle.

The men's eyes went wide as stones.

"No," the leader blurted. "We was only japing. Seeing what you're made of. No harm done."

"No, no harm done," I agreed. "But be mindful. Centaurs are patrolling the outskirts of Portaceae. If they catch you, you'll be put up against the Areans. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you for the news. Come men."

The band hurried off, throwing fearful glances over their shoulders, perhaps worried I would set the horses on them after all.

On the trip back I took every moment I could to pet the horses, hug them, and offer them pieces of apple I had in my travel pack. As much as possible, I allowed my horse and Altair's to show them how to be a horse among humans. It took much convincing, but I encouraged Altair to do the same. On our third night, we were left exposed when a lightning storm barreled through. When Blondie and Trouble huddled next to me to seek comfort, I knew we were making progress. With a patient and easy hand, the horses could be made into excellent mounts.

On the final ten miles to the city, I took the bindings from Blaze's mouth. He had proven to be the biggest baby of them all. Despite having only been fed grass and apple for several days, he made no attempt to bite me or Altair. Still, within the city, I feared the bustling streets, running children, and curious hands might be too much for the ill-treated animals. Once the city walls came into view, I took the caution to bind the horse's mouth again.

Diomedes's steeds weren't uncontrollable beasts, simply horses that needed proper training and kindness. But that kindness came too late and Eury was too hot headed to understand how to treat an abused animal. I should have never taken them to him. I should have taken them to Astoria to work under the best horse trainers in Osteria. I should have kept them away until they were fully trained, until we could use their blood lust in a controlled manner on the battlefield.

Their deaths were my fault. Eury had given me as much time as I needed on this task, but I rushed the animals to him with Altair trailing behind. I'd wanted the task to be done so I could return to the House of Hera. In my haste to be near Iole I'd gotten four strong animals and a good man killed.

* * *

I take Altair's body to his home and lay him on his bed. After saying my farewells and apologies to him, I go to his mother's home. She breaks down the moment she sees his horse without a rider. I hear the children playing in the yard behind her home and am thankful I don't have to face them as I explain to her what happened. I offer the woman the camera telling her she can sell it to support the children, but she pushes it away.

"That thing is a death machine," she wails. "It kills people. You kill people."

I don't know what to say. My throat has constricted so tightly, even if I had the right words to console her, I don't think I could say them. I hand her the reins of Altair's horse and turn away.

* * *

In the courtyard of the House of Hera, Iole tends to a tomato plant that has been smashed flat—one of the peacocks has apparently been using the vegetable beds as its nest again. My mood lightens slightly at the sight of her. I walk my chestnut through the courtyard wanting to swing the priestess up onto his back, jump on, and ride away with her. Together we could forget all the troubles of Portaceae. Troubles I now know I can do nothing to solve no matter what efforts I make.

From the stable behind the House, two horses call out in cheerful whinnies. When my chestnut replies, Iole looks up from the mangled vines. Her face carries no hint of greeting, no sign that she is glad I've returned. She stands and wipes her hands on the apron she wears over her dress. A streak of green shows where her hands have passed. Her eyes, where I hope to find some sign of friendship, reveal no hint of warmth.

"It's time you go home to your wife."

Her words hit me in the gut.

"My home is here," I say. Then, more quietly, "You are my home."

Her chin wavers and her glare softens. But then she shakes her head as if shaking out her unwanted emotions and fixes her face in a stern, cruel countenance. In that moment, she resembles the statue of her mother in the temple.

"The law states you must stay in the House of Hera, but you have duties to your wife. I suggest you see to them." She kneels back down to her plant as I stand there dumbly. Her back is to me. Her long braid running down to her waist makes me want to stroke her hair. I only want to touch her, to talk to her. I need words of comfort only she can provide.

Iole brushes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Go," she commands.

The other women in the yard stare at me. Euphemia starts hobbling toward me, rake in hand, ready to chastise me for disturbing her gravel. Ignoring them, I grip the camera so hard I can feel the handle driving into my palm. I spin on my heel, give a light tug on my horse's reins, and stride off with him to Peacock Lane.

Along the way, people glare at me. No one offers me a greeting. No one cheers me. Flyers that once plastered walls of buildings have been ripped, leaving only stubborn fragments with tattered words of support I no longer feel and no longer deserve.

The moment I step inside Deianira's door I'm greeted with the cloying smell of cooked onions. Deianira stands at the wood-fired brazier, her hair hovering dangerously close to the flame.

"Decide to grace me with your presence, hero? Well, stew's nearly done." She gestures with a cracked, wooden spoon to the pot in front of her. There's no smell of meat and my only thought is that she must be cooking a stew comprised entirely of onions. "After we eat, you will bed me and we will repeat the act as many times as I need. How could you insult me like that? That comment about your cousin guarding a precious object. Do you think I enjoy being a laughingstock? Just the other day—"

I turn and walk out the door.

Despite the stench of Deianira's cooking, my stomach rumbles in protest at not getting fed. I walk to the nearest tavern, but the owner brusquely says he's closing for the day. I try another eatery a few buildings down, but each item I order just happens to be out of stock. The next place I visit, a rundown bar that's always desperate for customers, flat out refuses to let me in. My stomach growls with a ferocious hunger. Vigile training has granted me the ability to go days without food and still be able to fight, but after the hearty food of the Herenes, I've grown accustomed to plentiful meals when I return from a task.

I grudgingly accept I won't be eating this afternoon when a vendor catches my eye and jerks his head to indicate I should come to him. I walk over, still carrying Altair's camera. The feel of it reminds me of him. How can I be so focused on my own hunger when he's dead? Still, my belly is empty and this vendor seems my only chance. As I near him he pretends not to see me, but behind his back he holds a bulging bag. I grab it as I go by. I shift the bag to the crook of my armpit and pull out a coin from my waist pouch. As I pass by I slip the coin onto the corner of his cart, then continue my trek to the edge of Forested Park.

When he sees me, Frederic moos a greeting and ambles over on his stocky legs. I set the camera down on a stump and go to the red bull who moves his head up and down under my hand with a look of utter contentment on his face.

"At least you're glad to see me."

Law or not, duty or not, I remain in the field using Frederic as a back rest as I eat the sack of food—roasted chestnuts and dried summer plums—offering Frederic a piece of each. I sleep through the night in the soft grass disturbed by images of dead horses, dead children, and dead friends. In the morning, I accept that I can't hide in this field forever. I ruffle Frederic behind the ears, pick up the camera, and head back to the House of Hera wondering what manner of greeting I will receive.

When I walk the chestnut through the Peacock Gate, Iole is the first sight that greets my eyes. Iolalus chats with her and both wear broad smiles on their faces as if they can't stop smiling when near one another. I grip the camera tighter and the chestnut tosses his head at the sudden yank I've given the reins. Is this why she dismissed me so readily yesterday? Why hadn't I seen it before? Iolalus. Everybody loves Iolalus. How could they not? He's amiable, humorous, and above all, not a blood crimer. I nod a curt greeting to them without meeting their eyes, then take my horse to the stables.

As I'm heading to the staircase, hoping I can avoid speaking to either Iole or her newfound love, Iolalus jogs up to me, a letter in his hand. When I see the broken wax stamped with a crowned peacock, my entire body takes on a heaviness as if a boulder has been dumped on my shoulders.

"Another task?"

"Appears so," he replies handing the letter to me. I scan it with disbelief, then crumple it into my pouch.

"Let's just hope no one dies this time."

I turn to continue on to the stairs, to head to my room to prepare for another of Eury's pointless errands. Before I've taken two steps, Iole calls to Iolalus. Her words, which I only want to be directed to me, to be kind and comforting, to say she's sorry for what she said the day before, do nothing but ignite my blood into a blaze of jealousy.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

### _Iole_

"IOLALUS, BEFORE YOU go, a moment please," I say. Herc glares at us, then shoves the camera into Iolalus's hands before storming off. I want to call after him, but Iolalus beats me to it. Herc fires a look back at us before slamming the stairwell door behind him.

"I—" I start to say but give up. There are more pressing matters than explaining myself. "Eury also sent a message stating that he's finally decided to meet with me. I would appreciate it if you were there as well."

"I need to prepare. If he still wants me to go." Iolalus's gaze shifts to the upper story of the guest wing then to the camera in his hands. "I don't know what's got him so angry."

I don't remark on his comment. My words yesterday came at a bad time. If only I'd realized Eury had killed the horses and Altair only moments before I said what I did. But there's little use in cursing myself for words I can't take back.

"He'll let you go. And he knows what you need. I would prefer to not be alone with Eury. Maxinia is at Altair's ensuring that his children have food to eat. If I'd been given some forewarning Eury was finally ready to meet with me, I would have had her wait—"

"Of course, I can be there," he says, cutting me off. "Is there some reason you're worried?"

"I'm afraid of his reaction to what I have to say, but you and your sword in the room might keep him in check. Can you be there in half an hour's time?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Here, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this." He hands me the camera. It's lighter than I thought it would be. I have no idea how the machine works and, to tell the truth, I feel wary of it. My only hope is that I can see the thing sold and the money passed on to Altair's children, but for now I take the contraption to my office and set it on Maxinia's table before settling at my desk to gather my thoughts—and my courage—before Eury arrives.

* * *

Iolalus appears on time dressed in full vigile regalia—a shining helmet that leaves his face exposed except where a metal plate protects his nose, hardened leather chest armor embossed with Portaceae's peacock symbol, stiff leg guards tied over knee-high leather boots, and a short sword in a scabbard at his waist. Despite his youth and my knowing his true gentle character, he makes an imposing figure.

The image of him as a fighter is erased when a childlike expression crosses his face at the sight of the camera.

"How does it work?" Iolalus asks as he presses a few buttons on the contraption.

"These electrical machines are beyond me. You should probably just leave it. Gods know what it might—" From the corner of my eye I see someone crossing the courtyard. A grating feeling like fingernails being dragged over my insides burns through my stomach. "He's here. Stand somewhere." Iolalus rushes over to stand at attention behind my desk.

Without even bothering to knock, Eury thrusts open my office door and swaggers as if imitating one of the peacocks in the courtyard. The moment he catches sight of Iolalus he stops in mid-step. The falter lasts only a moment before he flops into the chair placed in front of my desk. I take my seat. My legs jitter under the desk, but I keep my face neutral.

"What is this all about?"

"To begin with, you still haven't posted the funds you promised into the treasury. And yet—" I continue despite his attempt to interrupt. "And yet, your household expenditures appear to show an increase."

I push a paper toward him. He glances at it and his lips flutter as he struggles for an excuse.

"Those are private numbers."

"You are the Solon. You serve the people of Portaceae. Your numbers are their numbers."

Eury lets out a haughty scoff. "If the money is gone, what can you do?"

"The law says many things can be done. The Herenes have not employed them in the past because we foolishly believed your never-ending promises. But it's getting to a breaking point. The Arean invasion has already taken all of the Nemea District. They could be to Portaceae City in a matter of days. And your recent stunt with Stavros will no doubt have the Athenians barking at our door. We can't handle a two-pronged attack without money for weapons, fortifications, soldiers." I pound my index finger into the paper with each of the final three words. "You could lose this polis because of your failure to act. You're more concerned with sending your cousins on silly missions than helping Portaceae."

"You worry for nothing," Eury says. "The Athenians aren't made for battle. They'll flee at the sight of our vigiles."

"Vigiles? What vigiles? We now have the thinnest line of vigiles stretched across Portaceae in this polis's history. We can barely patrol Portaceae's outer regions because you can't afford to pay for more men. Most have already left to serve in other poli and I don't blame them. Men, no matter how dedicated, will only work so long without pay. Even if the Athenians could be taken with the forces we have, what about the Areans? They won't cower with the army we have left to show them. They'll laugh."

"Drum up volunteers, then. People should be proud to serve the polis. If not we'll force them into service." He leans back, crosses his arms over his chest, and flicks a worried look up at Iolalus.

"A ragtag bunch of half-trained conscripts? That's your solution to a force of men trained by Ares, the god of war himself?" I pause letting some of my fury dispel. Ranting will not carry my next message with the gravity it needs. "Eury, I've asked you to meet with me and for this man to serve as witness because I am charging you with neglect of the polis."

I thought he would immediately begin shouting, cursing, spewing out denials, but his face stays blank. A neglect charge hasn't been issued for over three hundred years. After Osteria split into the twelve poli, the first Solon of Portaceae was a well-loved general who settled first Portaceae City and then established the entire polis. General Alexander constructed much of the infrastructure and buildings that stood strong until the past thirty years. He instituted our educational system and established the roles of the governors in the districts of the polis. After building a temple in her honor, he attracted Hera to the polis making it the strongest in Osteria second only to Zeus's polis of Seattica.

Alexander's son became Solon after him and ruled just as wisely and built up the city and its walls. But when his grandson took power, the boy hadn't the military or political training to be a good ruler. His mother had indulged him and insisted on making life easy for him, which created a weak man and horrible leader. He hosted lavish drinking parties with only Osteria's elite on the guest list, elected whores to his council, and eventually left the ruling to them when he decided he'd rather drink his way through the Illamos Valley than solve his polis's problems. Portaceae was in near ruins after only three years of his rule.

The people were horrified at his behavior and begged the Herenes to intervene. The head priestess conferred with Hera and together they created the law that stated if a ruler neglected his duties to the polis, the Herenes could seize power until they elected the next leader.

With the new law on their side, the Herenes kicked Alexander's grandson out of Portaceae, took control long enough to stabilize the polis and then held their election. The man who sits before me staring blankly at my face is the direct descendent of the Solon chosen at that election. Eury now has a choice: He can take charge and rule as a Solon should, or be replaced in accordance to the law.

He continues to sit there, staring at me.

"You do know what the law of neglect is, don't you?" I ask.

He narrows his eyes and sends the chair toppling over as he thrusts himself out of it.

"You dare threaten me?" He pounds his fist onto the desk. Iolalus moves in closer.

"It's not a threat," I say as calmly as I can. My legs had gone still, but with Eury's outburst they start trembling again. "You have a choice to fund this polis with the money and forces it needs to build, maintain, and protect itself or I will seek your replacement."

"I'll see you dead before you do any such thing. And I will personally see you don't die a virgin." Eury's raging face slackens with shock at his own words. His eyes dart to Iolalus, but the Solon seems to see no point in covering his outburst. He steps back and trips over the legs of his chair. Giving the thing a final kick for its insult, he stomps to the door and slams it behind him without another word.

Iolalus lets out a heavy sigh.

"You could have warned me," he says with a smile. "I would have brought a bigger sword if I knew that was the card you were going to play."

My hands shake, but a wash of relief floods over me. I've issued the charge without backing down.

"He needed to know I was serious."

"You'll need protection from now on. Myself or Herc—"

Before I'm able to protest that I can't allow myself to be alone with Herc no matter how appealing the idea seems, I notice a blinking eye of red on the camera.

"What's it doing?" I ask warily. Iolalus and I step cautiously over to the machine and peer into its single large eye.

"I think it's been filming."

## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

### _Eury_

I RAGE MY way out of the Herene complex sending peacocks and pea gravel scattering in my wake. An old woman with a rake glares at me as if trying to frighten me with her haggy eyes, but as I near her, she huddles down and feigns interest in something at her feet. After hurling myself into the carriage, I yank the door out of Baruch's grasp and slam it shut. He stares at me through the window.

"Home. Now," I command.

I need Adneta. I need a drink. I need away from the unbelievable nerve of the head priestess. My cheeks burn and I can't still myself from the agitated anger coursing through me. How dare she threaten me? Pulling up some old law that no one has used in centuries is as low as making up new rules in a game when things aren't going to your liking. I call to Baruch to drive faster to push some air through the stuffy confines of the carriage.

The pace makes for a harsh ride but brings us pulling up to the courtyard in little time. In no mood to wait for Baruch, I hurl the door open, command he put the carriage away, and march into the courtyard.

The sight of my love lingering by the fountain is like the sun driving away the black weight of storm clouds. I can tell her my problems. She may not have a solution, but she will listen.

And perhaps comfort.

Dressed in a pink gauzy gown with a red corset that pulls in at just the right places and pushes her up in even better places, Adneta strolls around the courtyard tossing pebbles into the fountain as she makes her circuit. Her easy manner, her calm, even the way pieces of her hair escape from her coif and brush against her neck make me feel as if every burden has vanished from my shoulders. I tiptoe behind her and clutch her around the waist. She wriggles out of my grasp and pushes her lip into a pout that might have been seductive if not for the Hera-like scorn in her eyes. Brick by brick, I feel the heft of my bad mood returning.

"Nothing, you've given me nothing for—" she counts on her fingers, "—sixteen days now. You promised me the bull, now it belongs to everyone. I thought the horses would be for me, but you killed them."

"They were too dangerous for you, my love. Most wives would appreciate their husband protecting them from harm." I pull her back to me and whisper in her ear. "I give you my love. I give you the pleasure of being with the most powerful man in Portaceae. Now, give me something, please." I relax my hold to lean back and take in her beauty, but she backs away putting herself just out of my reach.

"You don't have power," she accuses. "Hera has the power. It's silly, why do you, why do _we_ need Hera? It's so old-fashioned. I mean who are The Twelve. What's their point? The kingdoms don't need them. Perhaps if you had Hera's power—" she trails off coyly as she steps in closer. I grab her to me, nuzzling my face into her breasts.

"We think so much alike, my love. Now, a gift for me?" I reach between her legs. Again she steps back. Her blasphemy is driving me mad with desire.

"Not without a gift. Something golden, I think, or some true show of power. After all, what power do you really have if you're always bowing low to Hera and her laws? Always having to rush off to the Herenes? That little priestess has more power than you." Her tone changes from wanton to taunting. My desire still flames, but something smolders just under it. "Until you can do more, you have nothing to give me, so why should I give anything to you?"

This is enough. I truly have had enough. My face burns so hot I feel as if I'm once again in the heat of the carriage. I've had enough of women telling me what I want and what I can or cannot do.

I lunge for Adneta, grabbing her by her hair and throwing her to the ground.

"I'll give you a demonstration of power."

She scrambles back. Her hair falling from its careful coif and her wide, frightened eyes give her a wild look that only stirs me more. I drop down on her, shifting my tunic, and tearing her dress aside in one deft motion. I pin her down as her corset digs into my ribs. With my cock a finger's width from entering her, I pause. "Do you believe I have power now, wife?"

"Yes," she whimpers. Black rivulets flow down her cheeks as tears ruin her mascara.

"Then gift or not you will give what's owed me from a wife, what I need as a man, or I will take it from you however, whenever, and wherever I like. Understood?"

She nods. Her eyes are still moons of fear and her chest heaves. The gasps and the corset have her breasts on the verge of spilling out. Gods, the power I feel. I mean to stop myself. She is my wife, after all. My love. But the sense of power, the insatiable need, and the day's frustrations take hold of all sense. I drive myself into her and she screams. The thrill of it, the strength I have over her is too much and after only two strokes I'm over the edge.

Afterward, I remain on top of her as she cries and pummels my shoulders as well as she can with my body still pinning her to the ground. As the throbbing pleasure fades, guilt settles in. I place butterfly-light kisses across her face trying to erase the tears.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." My tears are now mingled with hers and the sting of salt bites into my tongue. "I'm sorry," I say again feebly.

I rifle through my head trying to come up with how I can make up for what I'd done to her. Golden she had said. Something golden. Another peacock? No, she won't be mollified with something she has already grown bored with. Jewelry? No, she needs something more than a bauble. The map in my study dances in my head as the belt of my tunic pinches against my belly.

"A belt." The words blurt out and startle Adneta. I kiss her cheek. "A golden belt. I'll get it for you."

"I don't want it," she says through a sob that carries a hint of curiosity.

"I bet you do," I coo as I move my kisses to her forehead. "It's the only one of its kind and belongs to a powerful woman. If you had it, it would show our power." I prop myself on my elbow and look at her with an amused, amicable grin. "My dear, would you like the golden belt of the Amazonian queen?"

Her eyes widen. Not in fear this time, but in delighted surprise. The belt is famous throughout Osteria. It has only ever been worn by the powerful queens of Amazonia, passing from one to the next over the centuries. Taking it will display to all of Osteria the strength of Portaceae. A coy smile restores Adneta's face to beauty despite the red puffiness around her eyes.

"I might enjoy that."

She wraps her legs around mine, kneads my ass with her hands, and begins kissing me with an exploring tongue. My excitement rises again within her until the crunching of feet against gravel jerks my attention away. Baruch hovers over us, glaring at the sight.

"I heard screams. I thought there might be trouble."

My stiffness fizzles away and I push myself off my wife to stand. I brush my tunic to tidy it then hold my hand out to help Adneta up, but Baruch has already assisted my wife to her feet.

"Baruch, I feel like riding. Will you come with me to get my horse saddled?" Adneta asks.

It brings a smile to my face to see her spirits are still up after the terrible thing I've done. Baruch gives a solemn nod and offers his arm. She slides hers in and they head out of the courtyard together.

"Enjoy yourself, my love."

She glances back with a wry smile.

"I plan to."

* * *

After Adneta leaves I have every intention of scouring the collection books I keep in the house to find out what I can about the gods. Adneta has watered the seed of an idea that had already been lying dormant in my head. Why do I need Hera? Without her, I could do as I pleased, create new laws, be the true ruler of the polis. The gods must have weaknesses. With their spats and jealousies, they prove themselves to be imperfect often enough. I know if there's a way to find that weakness, I can use Herc to route it out. Unfortunately, although my library is filled with hundreds of books inherited from my grandfather, my interest in studying these tomes stands in complete opposition to my passion for Adneta.

I pace my study, looking out the window with each pass to catch a glimpse of Adneta on her stallion, but she never comes into view. After several trips I force myself to sit down with a book, but have no idea what it is I'm looking for. Too restless to stay in the room and having no desire to climb back into the stifling carriage, I order my guards to join me on a trip back into the city. Certainly, a stroll around the agora will clear my head and afterward I can settle down to my studies.

* * *

The trip proves to be a horrible idea. What I find is enough to make me wonder if Adneta was right. Do I truly have no power?

A disease has spread over Portaceae City's walls and shops despite my express command to contain it. A pestilence of my cousins fouls shop windows with hand-sketched posters of their valor and deeds. Wooden figures carved to look like them infest vendors' stalls. Plaguing the streets are placards coated in words of their bravery, words of their cunning, words of their heroism, and words of how it's a shame one of them isn't Solon. Although I've heard rumors that one small section of the city is boycotting anything related to Herc, even going so far as to ban him from their shops, it appears most of the city has fallen victim to the contagion that is my cousin.

Of course, the shopkeepers try to stand in front of the signs and posters, vendors bow their heads as they offer congratulations on my brilliance for choosing two such fine men to represent Portaceae. But as soon as I'm a few paces beyond them, snorts of laughter slap my ears. Once away from this place, I will order the guards back into the city to eradicate the agora of its illness.

After much effort I find a stall with nothing offensive in it—necklaces, bracelets, the chains women weave through their hair. If only Adneta could satisfy herself with these trinkets. But I suppose her exquisite tastes go hand in hand with her exquisite bed skills. As I examine the wares, I hear someone calling my name. I tense and am ready to signal my guards into action until I realize the voice carries no threat.

"Eury, Your Excellency," the shrill voice continues to call until it's right up on me.

I look beyond the bulk of my guards who are holding back a reed thin body that's topped by a mound of disheveled hair.

"It's fine, let her through," I say. "Deianira." She bows low and I hope all the people swarming the agora can see her show of respect, but no one seems to be paying me any attention. "Rise. What is it?"

"A private matter."

"To do with your marriage, no doubt." She nods and the mound of hair waggles just out of time with her head. "Fine, we can meet later today."

"Thank you, Excellency. May I ask what brings you into the city? We don't see enough of you these days," she says with a grin I think is meant to be alluring, but simply looks absurd on such a hard face.

"I was seeking knowledge," I say trying to sound wise as I continue strolling. My guards and Deianira keep pace with me.

Her face lights up. "I know who can help. The Oracle."

I let out a scoffing huff through my nose that has filled with the scent of stale, cooked onions that clings to Deianira. "That old hag?"

"No, she knows things. She knew I'd be wed. She knew it was my name that would be chosen."

"I find it hard you recommend her after that."

Her cheeks flush, but her eyes remain adamant.

"She knows things. You can ask her anything and she'll have the answer."

I wonder, if the woman has all the answers why she hasn't advised her client about scissors and a better hair style. But I have to admit I'm curious and it's either this or pour over the mountain of books in my study.

"Fine, take me to her. Or does she know we're coming?"

Deianira, ignoring or simply not understanding the joke, guides me through a series of small streets I didn't even know existed. In places where rubble from a fallen building blocks the way, we have to back track. Each twist and turn seems to bring us into a road narrower and dirtier than the last.

At the turn of the corner into an alley, an old man squats in front of a heavy wooden box with a sign that reads, "Five drachars each." I dare to peek at the contents. Inside swarms a mass of juvenile rats. I then realize they aren't swarming; they're feeding on a sibling—a sibling that still struggles against its brothers' and sisters' hungry teeth. I instantly recoil from the sight.

Once in the alley, the sky is nearly blotted out by leaning buildings and strings holding laundry that looks like it needs washed at least twice more. The lack of sunlight leaves puddles filled with wriggling mosquito larvae in the potholes.

"Here it is," Deianira says as we stop in front of a door that hangs askew on its hinges.

"Here?" I ask. "If she knows so much, why can't she place a few bets and move to the better side of town with her winnings?"

"Because I don't work like that," a stern, yet silky voice says as the door sways open.

"You're not a hag," I say. She isn't attractive, but neither is she the wrinkled old heap of bones that had been the Oracle when I was young. Her bright red hair frames a pale, unlined face. She watches me with eyes of such a deep brown that it's impossible to discern where the pupil ends and the iris begins. It gives her eyes a mix of youthful innocence and animal wildness. The look unsettles me and I step back a pace.

"Afraid?" she asks as she cocks a coppery eyebrow. "You should be with what's in your heart."

"What do you know?" I say defiantly.

She leans in so her lips are near my ear. I can sense my guards tensing, but I raise a hand to signal them to hold back.

"A man shouldn't rape his wife."

I tell myself it's the chill of the dark alley that makes my arm and neck hairs stand on end. She moves back and gives a triumphant smile.

"Good advice," I say, "but what does it have to do with your skills?"

She laughs at this. A pleasant and warm laugh that is completely out of place for this dank location. A woman on the stoop next door to the Oracle looks up from scrubbing her linens in water that appears as if it has been scooped from one of the alley's puddles. With a disapproving shrug she returns to her scrubbing.

"Come in if you want to discover my skills."

She turns and walks back into the hovel seeming not to care whether I follow or whether I stay on her stoop.

"Guards, wait here. Make sure no one else goes in. Deianira, I'll meet with you in an hour's time," I say as I start through the doorway.

"But you'll need payment," Deianira says.

I indicate the pouch at my waist. This is not the area of town where I want to announce how much coin I'm carrying. Deianira looks about to say something, but I ignore her and follow after the Oracle.

Where I'm expecting mysterious objects and talismans of fortune telling, I'm greeted by a normal Portacean home. A brazier holds a still-glowing coal, the squat wooden furniture has seen repair upon repair, and a wall niche holds a simple shrine to the Oracle's ancestral gods. A corner that makes up the kitchen area has shelves where foods such as squash, garlic, and apples that will keep for months are stored and a wooden counter where meals would be prepared. Hanging from the ceiling are several pots that seem too large for any meal for a single person. Along the wall hangs at least a dozen of fine Helenian-forged knives. Knives that cost the average Portacean a month's wages for a single blade.

"Sit." She indicates a wooden chair placed in front of a small oak table. As I sit, she slides into the chair opposite me. "What is it you want?"

"I thought you knew these things."

"I do, but I need to hear it from your lips. If you can't admit to what you want, then you don't want it badly enough."

"Power," I say without hesitation.

"Power," she repeats with a hint of a question in her voice. "What kind of power? Electrical power? You need engineers, not oracles for that. And from what I hear, you don't like engineers."

I hesitate. The idea had seemed so perfect when it bloomed inside my head, but to tell it to another turns the idea from a fragrant rose blossom to a dangerous tangle of thorns. The Oracle gives me a knowing smile. Satisfaction gleams in her eyes over her perceived triumph. I think of Adneta yelling at me, saying I have nothing I can give her. I think of Iole daring to threaten me with a neglect charge. I think of Hera. I sit up straighter in the chair.

"The power of the gods. The power over Hera."

"So, you do want it. And do you have payment?"

I reach to my waist and pull out a coin. She shakes her head with that same knowing smile.

"Coin won't give you the power you're after. Only blood. Most people pick up a rat on the way in."

"I've no rat. Here," I push a gold piece over. "That will buy at least fifty rats."

She stands. Ignoring the coin she glides over to the kitchen corner and makes a selection from her knife collection—a heavy cleaver with a blade that glints in the broken light.

I jerk out of the chair ready to call my guards.

"So, you don't want what you came for after all. A bit of blood for the power of the gods? Seems a small price to pay." She gives a shrug and puts the cleaver back in place.

"How much?" I ask. My voice shakes. She moves around me, slipping past me like a cloud of mist.

"I can't tell you. If you truly want power, you must be willing to pay any price. Do you truly want power?"

I nod, trying to hold her gaze but finding it harder to look into her dark pools with each circle she makes around me.

"Remove your tunic and bind it around your eyes." She glances at my crotch as she tells me this.

Dear gods, does she mean cut my cock off? This has to be a bluff. I refuse to let her shake me any further. I undo my belt and set it and the pouch on the chair. Once I've slipped the tunic over my head, I fold it to form a band that I then tie over my eyes.

"Hold your arms out away from your body and keep them there. Do not move them." I stick out my arms with my fingers splayed. My arms shake and my breath comes out in nervous pulses through my nostrils. I hear her step away and then the clink of another knife being taken away from its companions.

I'm about to give in, fling the covering from my eyes, say I've changed my mind. How hard could it be to read a few books? But my arms are frozen in place and before I can will my limbs to move, cool fingers clutch my groin. I feel the surge of an instant erection. A single whimper escapes my throat. No amount of power can be worth this.

"How much are willing to pay?" she asks

Before I can protest, before I can shout power will be pointless if I can't enjoy Adneta's body, I hear the swish of a blade arcing through the air. A sense of pressure and then heat washes over me before pain pulses through my body.

A cold hand squeezes my cock. I wonder if this is only the phantom sensation I've heard amputees describe. Another burst of pain hits me. I then realize the pain is coming not from my groin, but from my hand. Although, they are starting to tremble, I don't dare drop my arms.

The Oracle makes a few deft motions with her hand sending an engulfing and frightening pleasure through me. With a full body shudder and a cry I'm certain will turn the neighbors' heads, I release myself onto her palm. In the moments it takes me to recover, she wipes the fluid over the area where my right thumb had once been and binds the hand in cloth. She then yanks the tunic from my eyes. I don't know which I want more: To grab her to me and thrust my tongue into her mouth or to slap her until the teeth rattle in her head. She smiles with a coy yet firm expression that tells me I should try neither.

"If it's still bleeding when you leave, I can cauterize it. Do you need a cloth?" she asks looking to my crotch which continues to throb in time with the wound on my hand. I shake my head dumbly and slip my tunic back on. I then slide into the chair to hide the bulge that refuses to die down.

"Have I paid?" I hold up my hand. Surprisingly, the cloth is clean and no blood seeps through.

"I think you've done well. Impressive actually. You'll want to be careful with that wound, though. Cruelty can crack open even the thickest scar."

"If I need medical advice I'll go to the Herene nurses, not an oracle. Now, will you tell me how to get Hera out of my life?"

"Yes." The dark eyes glint like the knife blade she is wiping clean. "In the Garden of the Hesperides grows a tree that bears golden apples. That tree is Hera, Hera is the tree. If you take the tree, you take Hera."

"Where is the tree?" I ask picturing Herc uprooting the thing trunk, roots, and all and hauling it back to my villa.

"No man knows."

I slam down my fist. Searing pain rips through a thumb I no longer have.

"You mangled my hand and you don't know the answers to my questions? Can this tree be found?"

"I could have taken more," she says as if speaking of trimming my hair. "I still can. There are answers, but no man knows them. There is a tree, but no man can take it. Others do, others can. Not humans. Find them and you can find the tree."

My head reels trying to sort out her knot-like words that seem to twist in on themselves without any hint of where to begin to unravel them.

"So, it can be taken?" I ask slowly.

"Yes," she replies, exaggerating the syllable as if talking to a stupid child.

"And once I have this tree, I will be able to rule over Hera." She gives a slight nod. The knowing smile has returned to her lips. "What? Why do you look at me like that?"

"Because you have already promised your wife something. If you don't get it for her, she won't care what power you have."

The belt. How can this woman know about that? No matter, it should take Herc little time to overpower a woman even if she is an Amazonian warrior. Once he has procured the belt he can perform one final task. Hera will then be finished, the Herenes banished, and Portaceae will bow at my feet.

"Are we done here?" I ask as I stand. My foot grazes something. When I look down I see my thumb lying in a pool of blood. It points to the southeast. The Oracle comes to look at it with me. "Does it mean the search for the tree should begin in the southeast?"

"No, it means that's how it fell," she says in a sarcastic tone and then laughs. "But southeast sounds as good as any direction."

I grab my belt and fix it around my waist as I hurry out of the insane woman's hovel.

"Get me out of here," I say to the guards who form a barrier around me as we march out of the alley.

* * *

Deianira sits waiting on the steps of the veranda when I return. The guards flank to my sides when we stop. I look again to the cloth around my hand. Even after a near jog up the hill, not a single drop of blood blossoms through the binding. I stride up the steps to the main door.

"How did it go? She's wonderful, isn't she?"

"You could have waited inside," I say ignoring her question and turning the lock in the right sequence to release it before pushing open the door.

"No one answered, so I waited."

I wonder briefly where Baruch is but my thoughts never linger long on my servant.

"This must be important for you to be so patient." We cross the foyer and I show her into my study wondering if Adneta has seen her waiting on the porch like a dog for its master. No doubt if she has we will have an excellent time joking about the woman's horrid hair and boyish body later in the evening.

"It is." She sits in the chair I indicate and gawks around the room before focusing her attention back onto me. "You have to do something about Herc. He has duties under the law. Neglecting a wife is just as bad as cheating on her."

"You know the law the Herene dug up," I say as I sit down across the desk from her. "He must stay in the House of Hera until he is done with the—"

"The task, the tasks. Can't you just declare them done with? He's not doing anything for Portaceae." She looks shocked at her own outburst then says in a meeker tone, "I mean, not really."

If even this common woman has noticed my cousins' works haven't benefited the polis no wonder the walls of the city are lined with the people's hatred of me. But it's too late to worry about their opinion now. The Oracle has given me hope, regardless how vague that hope may be, and I will not back down even if people start building golden statues of my cousins taller than the arena's walls.

"His crime was great. You know that. So, no, the tasks cannot be waived."

"Then command him to be with me. You're the ruler of Portaceae, make him—"

She cuts her words off, but it's plain what she means to say. Command Herc to love her. What a pathetic notion.

"Love is not a condition of marriage."

Although I say the words gently, her eyes brim with tears and her nose flashes red as she snorts out a sob.

"But he's mine. You gave him to me, not to her, not to that Herene bitch. What sort of Herene keeps a man from his wife?"

Jealousy and a need for love. Gods, there's a perfect brew. If she's desperate enough, those two emotions could work to my advantage. After all, once the tree is found, I can't leave Herc to be a threat or a rallying point for the people no matter what power this tree might give me. But if Deianira can do my dirty work, the people won't hate me when their hero falls. For a day that began so terribly, it really is shaping up quite nicely despite the loss of a thumb.

"It is a sad and shameful business. That's the problem of allowing such a young Herene to be priestess and a matter I plan to tend to. But there is a way to get what you want from your husband."

Her face lights up like a stray that's just been offered a fresh hunk of steak.

"I'll do whatever it takes."

I knew she would.

From my desk drawer, I pull out a small vial using my left hand. Inside, the red liquid still retains the warmth of life. Strange, given that single drop means death. I had saved it from the hydra blood I'd sold to the Areans. It isn't much, but it will be more than enough to do away with my cousins.

I hold the vial between my thumb and forefinger letting the contents catch the light coming in from the window. She eyes it with fascinated curiosity.

"What it is?"

"The famous Drops of Love. Feel." I hold it out for her to touch. She brushes a tentative finger against it, then lets the finger linger as a smile forms on her paper thin lips. "What you feel is the warmth that burns in the heart of true lovers. Just a few drops of this potion will make Herc love you for all time. He will forget Iole. You will be his only thought."

"Does it work?"

"Look at me. I'm a man with a skewed nose and paunch of a belly." I pat my abdomen as I deliberately push it out making it look fatter than it truly is. "But yet my wife is one of the most beautiful women in all of Portaceae."

"You gave her these?"

_Oh, I've given her many things to keep her mine._

"What do you think?"

"Hand them over," she says with an eager grin.

I start to hand her over the vial but just as she reaches for it, I snatch the vial back.

"On one condition."

"Anything. I have money."

"No, marriage is important to the polis so think of this as a donation. What I need is a promise from you that you will wait until the tasks are over before you give the drops to him."

Her face pulls into a scowl as she slumps back against the chair.

"Why? He's my husband. Why should I wait for these stupid tasks?"

"My dear, you chose to marry him knowing he had duties to fulfill. Now, whether you believe it or not, his duties are vital to Portaceae, to the future of this polis. As you know we are at war with the Areans and now the Athenians may threaten to invade us. If you give this to your husband the hero before he is done getting us the resources we need to defend ourselves, he will be so distracted with his love for you he won't be able to help Portaceae. You wouldn't want to be the woman who was the ruin of the polis, would you?" She shakes her head guiltily. "Isn't it worth waiting a few weeks, a month at the most, to have him utterly besotted with you for the rest of his life? Isn't a tiny bit of patience worth it for the good of the polis?"

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.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

### _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."

## CHAPTER THIRTY

### _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 bristle 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."

I stand for a while taking in deep, angry breaths as Poseidon watches at me. When I turn from him, he paces around the courtyard brushing his hands along the vines as he passes, causing the flowers to release even more of their heady fragrance. Once my breathing calms, he stops in front of me, looking at me with eyes that are so much like Zeus's I don't know whether to slap him or hug him.

"But now so much has changed," he says as he places his hands on my shoulders. I can hold his gaze no longer and look to the red tiles of the courtyard's floor. "He is proving himself worthy of the gods' gift. More worthy in fact than some gods themselves. His strength and courage in the face of danger, his respect of the gods, his loyalty to you and your polis, and his faithful love of your daughter. His worthiness far exceeds that of Eury."

My brother is right. I'm punishing the wrong man. Eury, while not disrespectful of me, does nothing to improve my polis. And his attempts at seduction are so transparent as to be pathetic. I admit it. I made a mistake. I meddled in mortal affairs only to worsen my polis and leave it exposed to danger and ruin. I know all these things. I knew them long before I caused the bastard to kill his children, but it's something I hate to acknowledge. I meet my brother's eyes. He hands me the rose again. This time I take it.

"I hate your wisdom," I say peevishly.

"Of course you do."

"It is time for Portaceae to see a new face, a face she can be proud of, don't you think?"

"Yes," Poseidon says grinning at me like I'm a child who has just figured out a rather simple puzzle.

"These tasks will be ended. The bast—" I cut myself off. "Hercules Dion is heading to Amazonia. I'll meet him there to explain matters to him. Will you ensure him safe passage over the seas?"

Poseidon nods. "And then what?"

"Then he will be Solon, he may dissolve his marriage to Deianira, and, if my daughter chooses to do so, I will release Iole from our bargain."

"And Herc will be immortal?"

I roll my eyes. I am still not certain of granting him this gift of gifts. Poseidon stares at me, expecting a positive reply. I release a deep sigh.

"Yes," I concede.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

### _Herc_

THE PROSPECT OF what we're heading into should drive fear into any sailor, but Pirro and Perseus chatter back and forth in a jovial tone and their lips show nothing but smiles.

"You two sail with us from now on. We never have such easy passage," Pirro says in his thick accent once he's finished rolling up the sail. As the wind dies down, he works the rudder. The ship gently bobs to the dock where Perseus lashes the boat to a pylon. "And look there," Pirro points to the village. Although a group of women watch us, none have an arrow trained on our chests. "The gods truly favor you."

"That would be a change," I say.

I stand at the bow of the boat looking at the village and the stern-faced women as Iolalus and the crew remain at mid-ship watching over the railing.

With the stillness of the tethered boat and the protection of the harbor, the chilling wind has disappeared and the afternoon sun is roasting me under my cloak and pelt. I can't say how long I wait scanning the crowd for some sign of welcome or danger, but it's long enough to see my shadow shift at least a hand's breadth.

Just as I'm about to remove the pelt, a horn blasts two times and the voices of hundreds of women bellow out a _whoop_. Their call doesn't come from just one location but echoes throughout the village and across the hillside. Like the lion's roar and the hydra's screech, the sound goes straight to my gut and unnerves me as I'm sure it is meant to do.

Down from the central street of the village marches a retinue of women. They're dressed much as vigiles in tunics, knee-high leather boots, and chest armor, but rather than the vigiles' linen colored cloth, the Amazonian tunics are died deep black and their chest armor curves to highlight their feminine figures. They march in silence, even their footsteps seem muffled compared to those of the men I marched with during vigile training. With a single _Hup_ they halt at the edge of the dock. After another _Hup_ the group splits in two forming a channel between them.

Striding down the valley created by the warriors, a woman with long black hair appears from the hoard. She carries herself tall and proud as those she passes bow their heads in reverent greeting. Around her head she wears a circlet of gold and from this dangles tiny chains the same length as her hair. A small bell at the end of each chain delivers a melodic sound with each of her confident and graceful steps.

She too wears a vigile's tunic of deep red, but instead of armor, she has decorated her torso with a golden corset. The garment pushes up her breasts that ripple in time with the bells as she walks. On her feet she wears a type of boot, but instead of fully covering her calves, straps of leather crisscross in an intricate pattern from toe to knee. Circling her waist is a belt of white and yellow gold braided together. A golden brooch with the arrow symbol of the Amazonians embedded in diamonds clasps the belt. Like a drop of enemy blood, a single ruby glitters at the tip of the brooch's arrow.

Even without these embellishments she would still be one of the most captivating women I've ever seen. She stops at the bow looking up at me with eyes of dark amber.

"Why are you here?"

"To ask a favor of you, my queen." I bow low, when I dare to look up, I catch a hint of a smile at the edge of her lips.

"How do you know I'm queen?"

I lean over the rail and she leans in closer. The women nearest us shift their spears ready to defend their queen.

"Because only a queen could steal without punishment," I whisper. Where the words come from, I can't say. Perhaps the wine, perhaps the sense of freedom the sea instills in a man. I have never been clever when speaking to women, especially women this alluring. But something about her, something about the sea air, something about being away from the weight of Portaceae stirs a mischievous candor in me.

"And what have I stolen?"

"My heart, of course. Surely you must have stolen many men's hearts."

This time a smile flashes on her face as if she can't do anything to hold it back. Just as quickly as it appears, she erases it. "And then I am said to either put them on stakes or grill them for my supper." Her words are sharp, but her eyes glint with amusement. "Lower the plank," she commands the crew. "Or do you expect me to leap on board like a cat?"

Perseus and Pirro mumble their apologies and fumble over each other to shift the gangplank out to her. Even this capable duo can't manage themselves at the sight of Lyta, Queen of Amazonia.

Lyta climbs on board, taking my hand for balance as she steps down from the plank onto the deck.

"And you are?"

"Hercules Dion of Portaceae."

"Dion. Son of Zeus," she remarks eying me with curious admiration.

"I do not know my father."

"Then you should tell everyone Zeus is your father. After all, his bastards rarely know of their godly sire. Many claim it, but with you they'd believe it," she says casually. Clearly the importance of male parentage that fuels the gossip mills of Portaceae has never been an issue on this island of women.

Lyta strolls along the deck looking about. From the dock and the streets of the village, thousands of pairs of humorless eyes watch us with disapproval. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private? Discuss what it is you want from me?" She grins at me with full, glistening lips.

"Below decks," I say pulling open the door set in the deck. "Apparently quite a selling point for this vessel."

"Indeed," she says as she slips through the doorway.

Iolalus rushes over and tugs at my arm. "What are you planning to do?" he asks in a whisper that is ripe with judgmental bitterness.

I look down at Lyta and am rewarded by a pleasant view of the cleavage created by her bodice.

"Whatever the queen wants."

"And Iole?" he accuses.

Guilt sends a pang through me until I recall the priestess's harsh command that I leave her to go to another woman.

"Does not love me. She sent me away. I'm not married to her. If you have concerns for my fidelity, they should be for Deianira. Now if you don't mind, I believe I've found my mermaid."

I step below decks closing the door behind me. Below the bow is a small door marked _Head_. At the middle of the ship spreads a galley to the left and a table to the right, but Lyta bypasses these areas and slinks to the door at the rear. She opens it and looks back at me.

"Nice place."

Inside is a tight yet cozy sleeping space with a full bed and cabinets for storage. The Amazonian queen stops by the bed. She's taller than any woman I've been near, so tall she's able to look me in the eye without tilting her head up. The afternoon warmth has heated the room making the double layer of cloak and pelt unbearable. I remove the garments and toss them on the bed. When I turn, Lyta is next to me.

"So, Herc Dion, what was it you wanted?"

To tell her the things I want would run the gamut from bringing my children back, to understanding Iole's sudden hatred of me, to not being at the beck and call of Eury, to returning Portaceae to glory, to fleeing my polis altogether. But seeing her sensuous beauty, smelling the spicy scent of her skin, feeling the heat radiating from her body, all other wants slip away. She's like a flower whose scent is so intoxicating that even someone allergic to it wants to take a deep inhale of the fragrance.

"I want your belt," I say simply.

She gives me a wry smile and arches an eyebrow before unclasping the brooch of the belt. It delivers a metallic tinkle as she slides it from her waist. When she wraps the belt twice around my upper arm, the metal still retains the warmth from pressing against her body and her touch sends bolts of lightning through me. She finishes by clasping the brooch to secure the belt. When done, she doesn't move away.

"So simple. You asked, it's yours. And that's truly all you want from me?" she asks as her lips graze my ear.

I think of saying that it is, that I have the belt, I've done my duty, and I must now return to Portaceae to face further trials. Images of Iole flash through my head—our riding away together from the blood crime vault, her touch when she showed me my room in the tribute's wing, her beauty on my wedding day. But the final image, the image that blots out all the others, is of her telling me, ordering me to go away from her and the harsh glare she sent me away with.

It takes being this far away to realize that dreams of Iole are only that. Dreams, figments of my imagination. Whereas this woman, this embodiment of passion only a whisper away from my lips is real. The warmth coming off her skin, the smell of her body, the touch of her fingers are all real.

"It's all I came for. It's not all I want," I say in her ear before placing a kiss on her neck.

"Anything is yours for the asking." She brushes her lips against my cheek. I slide my hands from the curve of her bodice to the swell of her hips. I move my mouth back to her ear, brushing her hair to make the bells sing.

"I want to hear the sounds of those bells as you ride me." I press my body to hers, kissing her breasts as I slip them out of the bodice. I suck them until she moans and when I reach between her legs, she gasps with surprised pleasure. Her hand slides up my tunic, stroking and then grasping me to guide me onto the bed.

The act is a rush of excitement and over with much too soon.

"I forgot to give you what you wanted," she says as she leans over to bite my nipple. My moan makes her laugh. "Stay with me Herc, be king of Amazonia. We don't have the rules, the laws, the troubles of Portaceae. Bed me nightly and give me children. The boys will be vigiles in the poli and our girls will be warrior queens on this island."

"Why me? Surely you can have your choice of the most powerful men in Osteria."

"You're right. Men have come here trying to please me with words and gifts. So far, no one has made me want them. You have. Stay with me." Her words are flippant, but her eyes plead with me to accept.

"How could I stay here? I thought the Amazonians hated men." I trace my finger along her inner thigh.

"They do. Their queen does not. And don't believe all tales you hear. The men I send away, those who don't meet my approval, will tell any tale to make it seem it wasn't their fault they were scorned. Being run out of the harbor by a wild band of arrow-wielding women certainly sounds better than being unable to satisfy a woman's needs. Besides, how would I make an heir without a man?" She kisses me. "Without you? Will you stay?"

Her hand begins stirring me back to life. I lean in to kiss her, pulling her into my arms even as her hand continues its work. The gods be damned, I never want to return to Portaceae if I can stay here with her.

The complications, the polis in ruins, the strict laws and petty gods, none of it matters. It all seems suddenly so pointless. I should have left ages ago to seek my destiny somewhere other than languishing in the doldrums of Portaceae. Perhaps destiny has found me.

"Yes," I reply and a wave of relief washes over me. Never before have I felt more certain that I've made the right decision. I will be king here with a passionate, beautiful, strong woman at my side. I will rule as I should have ruled Portaceae. A pleasure not caused by Lyta's hand courses through my veins at the thought of having power, of having a say in how a kingdom is ruled, to have the respect of the people as Minos does. The thrill of finding what I've never before admitted I want surges to my groin.

Lyta mounts me. As she rotates her hips, the bells in her hair jingle in time with my thrusts. Her moans of pleasure repeat several times. When my moment comes, I raise up clutching her to me, our cries echoing in the small chamber. As we struggle to catch our breath, I'm torn between never wanting to give up this moment, never wanting to pull our bodies apart, and the desire to rush out and start my new life.

Before I can decide, before Lyta disentangles her limbs from me, the small chamber fills with the noise of a horn's call. Lyta jerks up. The bells, now tangled in her tousled hair, produce a hollow jangle. Another blare sounds and she hurries to the porthole.

"What in the name of Hades are they doing?" she shouts as we shrug into our tunics. I have no idea what could be happening, but seeing Lyta's frantic mix of fear and annoyance puts me on edge. I've already encountered the horn's call on our approach and know it alerts the warrior women to a threat. I hope two calls merely signal a warning or tell the women who escorted Lyta to the dock to fall back. I hope it means all is well and there will be no more calls from the damned instrument.

My hope is short-lived, killed by a third blare reverberating through the cabin. Lyta dashes for the cabin door. As I try to hold my queen back, try to keep her from running into danger, the Amazonian war cry races across the island, filling the area below decks with its urgency and making my gut clench with dread.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

### _Hera_

"THEY'VE TAKEN HER," I yell when the lovers' cries ring out across the dock. "Hear that? He's killing her. She's crying for your help. Sound the alarm. Call the battle. Save the queen!"

A horn blasts three times and from all sides of me comes a _whoop_ that drives fear even into my limbs. The women who escorted the whore move in closer to the boat. The groups at the front have bows drawn and aimed while the ranks behind them hold their weapons at the ready.

The bastard! To think I'd almost been fool enough to feel pity for him, to think he was worthy of the Solonship and my daughter. With this betrayal he has proven himself no better than his rutting father.

When Herc and the whore emerge above decks, the sight of her tunic flapping in the wind with no belt and no bodice to hold it down, sears a raging anger through me.

"He's raped her, stolen the belt of the Amazonians," I shout.

The women bellow another loud _whoop_ and the first row of archers shoot their arrows. The moment they've fired, they drop down and the second row steps forward.

Herc shouts to get the boat underway while trying to shield Lyta with the lion's pelt. As a small man and Iolalus haul in the gangplank and a blonde man snaps the sails into action, the whore queen wriggles from Herc's grasp. He starts after her holding out the pelt for her to take. She is too lost in trying to command her women to accept his offer. In a desperate move, Herc flings the pelt over her shoulders.

"Shoot," I command. Although I cannot kill him myself, I can ensure enough arrows volley his way to make escape impossible. His foolishness in draping the pelt over Lyta instead of himself will spell his doom. "He's trying to escape. Get him before he takes her away."

The ship has already begun drifting out to sea, but the second tier of archers is ready. The women aim their arrows to the sky, release their bow strings as one, and a _whoosh_ of steel, wood, and feather fill the air as the arrows make an arc across the sky so dense it's like a thundercloud passing over the sun.

Shouts come from the boat and Herc tries to pull Lyta. She yells pointlessly for her warriors to cease fire from under the cover of the lion's pelt. The sails billow out, catching the wind and whipping it over the deck of the vessel. Iolalus's red hair waves like a flame and Lyta's protective cloak is blown off. Before it can fly into the sea, Herc dashes to the garment and clutches it around his neck.

The arrows reach their zenith, seem to hang in midair for a heartbeat and then rush down heading directly to the ship. The women's aim is so precise they've been able to calculate in an instant where the boat will be when the arrows take their downward arc. On the descent, the arrows pick up speed whistling down, ripping through sail, landing on the floor of the deck, piercing and killing one of the crew. I suppress a laugh as one of the pointed heads delivers an arrow's shaft straight through the queen's jiggling breasts. Herc drops to his knees huddling over her body. Under the lion's pelt he's immune to the arrows that now bounce off him. I curse myself for ever sending him after that beast.

When the volley ceases, he rises up from the body, faces the shore, and roars with anger from under his lion's pelt.

Although the Amazonian queen's death is not the one I had hoped for, I do earn some satisfaction at watching the bastard suffer for making a fool of me and my daughter. How had both of us been stupid enough to believe in a man's love? As his agony echoes across the bay, I melt back into the crowd of wailing women, tilting my face away from them to disguise the rueful smile curving across my lips.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

### _Herc_

MY HEAD SPINS as if the boat has been sucked into a whirlpool. I crash hard on my knees beside Lyta, driving splinters of wood from the deck into my skin.

_Not another one._

Why? Why hadn't she stayed under the pelt? It could have saved her. I tried to save her. I could have remained in Amazonia, I could have ruled a kingdom, I could have been loved if only I could have protected this one person.

A strong wind sweeps in heavy clouds and a chilling drizzle. I hear Iolalus rushing about asking someone what to do next, where to tie the jib down, when we will be back to the Dock Lands. But I don't care. I don't care if we capsize, if we lose our course, or if we are dragged to the depths of the sea by krakens. I only want to hold Lyta, to kiss her cheek as long as I can and abandon reality for dreams of the life she offered me.

From the island, the keening sound of sorrow reaches the boat even when I can no longer see the grieving women. The noise tugs at me, pulls at my throat, makes my stomach queasy. The drizzle changes to a driving rain as the winds whip the sail. I can think of nothing to do but lay down next to my queen and pull the lion pelt over us. Hidden under the protective cover, I weep as tiny bells tinkle when I stroke Lyta's hair.

* * *

"Herc, wake up," Iolalus urges. He is nudging my shoulder with his foot. I peer out from under the pelt. The sky has gone dark. Blocked by cloud cover, even the stars don't shine.

"Leave me."

"Herc, we must take care of her."

"No, leave us." I huddle closer to Lyta. Another life gone because of my failures.

"Herc, she's taken on the stiffness of death. It's time to say goodbye."

I brush my hand against Lyta's cheek. Iolalus is right. Not only is she as cold as the sea we sail on, but her skin doesn't move under my touch. Her face doesn't turn to call my name and her lips don't form into a passionate kiss. She is gone. Another victim of my vicious crime. Will I ever fully atone for the deed?

I push myself up to standing. My muscles ache after laying for so long on the hard surface of the deck. The rain and winds have died down, but the air refuses to give up its unseasonable chill.

"She died on the sea, we must give her back to the sea," Perseus says. Pirro's body rests on deck wrapped in a piece of sail cloth, ready to be returned to Poseidon.

"Are you ready, Herc?" Iolalus asks, not unkindly.

"I'm ready to be done with these tasks." I know it isn't what he means, but it's the first thought that comes to me. If people are to die for my mistakes, let them be enemies of Portaceae. True enemies, those invading our borders, not those whose possessions Eury wants to claim.

"As am I. How can we avoid them though? Eury will never allow you to forego your tribute."

"I will ask to finish my tribute serving on the eastern boundary. Although I can't bear the thought of you risking your life in war, I know I can't stop you from following me. It's at least a better use of our lives than stealing treasure from—" I break off as my gaze drifts down to the arrow protruding from Lyta's body.

Iolalus says nothing. I lift Lyta into my arms. Her hair hangs down and I brush my cheek against it wanting to hear the bells one more time. But the sound is no longer musical, no longer full of life. Without Lyta making them sing, the bells sound like nothing more than metal pinging against metal.

I kiss her one last time on the lips. Cold and stiff, not the lips of my passion-filled Lyta. She is forever gone. I have killed her.

"To Poseidon then," I say as I lower her body over the side of the vessel and let my queen slip into the black depths of the sea.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

### _Iole_

I PACE MY office. I now know how the peacocks feel on the rare times we must cage them. Impatient, frustrated, confined. If I had wings, I would be beating them against the walls. Instead, I pace. Each time I pass by, I earn looks of annoyance from Maxinia whose papers rustle out of order. One thought marches through my mind keeping time with my steps: Herc will be back today.

Gossip has trickled its way into Portaceae, but slowly and in painfully broken order. The first news had been that two people had died when the Amazonians attacked the ship. My heart plummeted at the thought it might be Herc and Iolalus, and I cursed myself. How could I have sent Herc off like that? If he died his last memory of me would be my cold countenance as I shunned him.

Before the next round of news came, my mother made a rare appearance in my rooms. I bowed low to her and offered her wine.

"I did not come here for a tea party," she scolded. I next offered a seat. "This won't take long enough to weary my legs." With this curt reply, I made no further efforts to play the good hostess. "These neglect proceedings you have begun against the Solon must stop."

"But why? Eury is ruining the polis. Your polis."

"Indeed. It is my polis and I will have the say over who is Solon." Despite the afternoon sunlight beaming into the chamber, the room's temperature suddenly became as cold as a winter's morning. My skin burst out in gooseflesh, but the chill did not freeze my tongue.

"You fear Herc will be chosen as Solon if Eury is deposed. What would be so wrong about having a true, honest, and loyal man ruling Portaceae?"

My mother's eyes flared in anger and, although I've seen the look numerous times, it's never been directed onto me. The effect staggered me back a couple paces.

"Do not be so certain of any man's honesty or loyalty. There will be no neglect charges against Eury. End your case now. Is that understood?" I remained silent trying to match her own icy stare, but my efforts didn't even garner a blink from her eyes. "Is that understood?" she repeated more firmly. I nodded and looked to my feet, feeling like a child ashamed of some minor misdeed. The room warmed slightly, but my skin still prickled as I clutched my arms to my chest. "I'm sorry to be so cold." My mother reached out to stroke my hair but I flicked my head like a cantankerous cat. "I've warned you before, child. Give up your thoughts of him. He is not the man you think he is, nor does he love you."

"He does," I said staring at her defiantly.

"He may have, but no longer." She gave me a final look that she may have meant to be kind, but stirred nothing in me but frustration. Seeing I wasn't going to run into her arms and thank her for her advice, she disappeared in a flash.

The next round of news came soon after my mother's visit. The Areans, after lingering long enough in Nemea to build up their forces, had begun to move. They weren't heading directly west into Portaceae City as I had anticipated, but instead, invaded the south, the Augean District. I then realized they planned to pick off districts until Portaceae City was surrounded, an island in a sea of Areans.

The following evening brought more news from the Dock Lands. One of the dead was the Amazonian queen, but still nothing else identified the other person and my mood became irritable with the lack of knowledge. Why did I not ask my mother when she was in my rooms if she knew what had happened? Finally this morning, word arrived that the second victim was one of the hired crew, that Iolalus and Herc were safe and on their way home.

In my excitement over the news, my ability to concentrate turns equal to that of a flea. Whenever I sit down to work, my mind drifts to what I will say to Herc when he returns. I give up on my desk tasks, and give up trying to remain still. Instead, I pace the room, making an occasional circuit into the hall to gape out the window. In the course of one circuit, one during which I force myself to walk slowly past Maxinia's table so her papers don't scatter, someone knocks on the door jamb.

My face falls from joy to frustration when I see it is only Euphemia. The hurt that flits across her expression makes me want to kick myself especially as I know it takes her a great deal of effort to mount the stairs with her bad leg. I force a warm smile of greeting on my face and her eyes beam at my attention.

"Your Highness, they have returned. They are heading to the Solon's villa."

My heart surges and then seems to forget its timing until it thuds back into rhythm. I kiss Euphemia on the cheek and dash from the room earning angry shouts from Maxinia as her papers follow in my wake. When I reach the courtyard, a procession of people is moving in the direction of the Solonian Hill.

I run to the stables. The new stable hand—a shy, dark-haired boy of fourteen—offers his help, but I can't wait. I hurriedly throw bridle and reins on my white horse and leap onto her back in a single burst. To avoid the crowd along the Hera Way, I urge the mare to race up the back way to the villa, slowing the horse only when I see Herc in front of Eury's porch facing the wrath of Deianira. Something golden circles his upper arm and, although I can find no logic in it, a sudden revulsion for the thing churns my gut.

"You will come home," Deianira is shouting at Herc as he remains astride his chestnut. "You shame me and yourself by not visiting me. It's simply—"

She continues her rant, but Herc's eyes lift from her and find me. His face carries a mix of frustration and longing that matches my own heart's stew of emotions. I want to run to him, explain everything, tell him what I feel for him. But his look is not inviting me to do any of these things.

Deianira is still berating him when Eury steps out onto his curved porch. Unlike his cousin's, Eury's face is easy to read—joy under a mask of irritation.

"Shut up woman," Eury yells at Deianira. She silences immediately as if someone has clapped a hand over her mouth. "You three," he says pointing to me, Herc, and Iolalus, "inside."

We leave our horses in the hands of Eury's tall servant who appears put off by the menial task. Once inside, Herc wastes no time. He rips the metal belt from his arm and hurls it to the floor.

"There, take your damn treasure. And know that it is the last. I'm through with this game of yours. You can send me to the east so I can serve Portaceae by fighting off her enemies, not by collecting you baubles and trinkets."

Eury sneers at his cousin. "There is no bargaining. You agreed to these tasks."

"They are useless. I will have no part in them any longer."

"Then you die."

"Do it. What have I to live for?"

His words cut into my heart. If he sees no point in living, he truly does no longer care for me. But what should I have expected? I pushed him away. He is a man, not a spring that will bounce back at my whim.

"And Iolalus dies," Eury adds.

"He can finish these ridiculous tasks on his own, if he agrees to that you have no reason to execute him. Am I right, Priestess?"

His refusal to use my name or even speak kindly to me leaves me uncertain of myself.

"I—I would have to look, but yes, I think the law—" I swallow hard to hold back tears and to control my stammering. "The law does state the volunteer dies only of the tasks aren't completed. If he completes them—"

"Laws!" Eury kicks the belt. "I've had enough of all the loops and twists contained in these laws." He pulls up so he's inches from my face. "Or do you just make them up as you go along?" He starts to grab me, but Herc pushes him back. "Oh, I forgot," Eury says mockingly as he straightens his tunic, "you have feelings for her. Is that why you fucked the Amazonian queen? To show our priestess how much you cared for her? Were you thinking of Iole when the queen's cries made the boat—"

Eury, so built up in his lewd words, doesn't have time to defend himself. Iolalus's fist lands square on Eury's nose. Certainly not a full strength punch, but enough to send Eury staggering as he clutches his face. Blood dribbles out from between his fingers. He takes deep breaths through his mouth, never once taking his fury-filled eyes off Iolalus.

"What do you know of what took place on that ship?" Herc demands.

"Do you forget that I am Hera's direct link to Portaceae?" He looks to me. "Your mother was quite descriptive about what your heroic Herc did with the queen. He even promised to be her husband. Amazing what a good screw can do to you, but you wouldn't know about that would you, Priestess?"

I refuse to give Eury the satisfaction of reacting to his words. I hold his gloating look with every piece of fortitude I have, but inside my heart feels like it's being stabbed with a knife pulled straight out of the smith's forge. Could he truly have wanted to stay with her? Jealousy flares over my self-pity, but who can I blame? I was the one who sent him away.

"But don't worry, your mother got rid of your competitor." He looks to Herc as if hoping for a reaction, but Herc's face retains its hard scowl. "One hour," Eury snaps at his cousin. "One hour for you to change your mind about this. In the meantime, I'll be certain the blood crime vault is ready for you."

Eury snatches up the belt, then marches toward and up the sweeping staircase leaving the three of us standing in the foyer. I can do nothing but stare at the drops of blood crusting on the marble floor.

"I'm going to find a good beer and large portion of food," Iolalus says as if nothing has happened, then quickly darts out the door. Unsure what to say to Herc, I say nothing and turn to exit the oversized villa.

I gather my horse from Baruch and mount her as Herc, who has followed me out, swings up on his. To avoid the crowd that still mills about the main entry, we ride out together the way I came.

"I should explain—" Herc begins.

"No, I'd rather you not. Not now. Just, please, finish the tasks."

"Why? What's the point? Each one just brings more trouble, more pain, more death. And I don't see how they benefit Portaceae, do you?"

"I'm certain they only benefit Eury. I've proof enough of that, but something tells me you need to finish them. That somehow completing them will help Portaceae. Maybe not directly, but somehow. Does that make sense?"

"No." He pauses and I don't know what to add. How can I tell him I fear the polis will be left in ruins without his help? Or that I would rather die than live without him?

"Did you really promise to stay with the queen?" I ask quickly.

He seems to chew in this question before answering.

"It seemed the best alternative."

"To what?"

"To coming home and facing your rejection again. To spending my days with Deianira. If Eury had allowed me to go fight the Areans, that would have provided me another alternative. But it now seems I'm out of options."

We ride, keeping the horses at a walking pace and saying nothing as we make our way back to the House of Hera. I want to tell him he doesn't need to die, that he can stay with me, bed me, be mine. I would leave the House, lose my immortality to be with him, but before I can speak the words, bells toll announcing a gathering in the arena. The sound makes my heart drop to my feet.

"What's taking place today?" Herc asks. His voice is tinged with the same worry that fills me.

"Nothing is planned. I don't like this."

"Stay close to me," he says as we turn the horses away from the House to ride to the arena. We leave the horses tied outside the rear entrance and enter into the underbelly of the arena. As we approach the stairs to the box seats, we catch a glimpse of the arena floor. The sight forces me to cover my eyes.

"Iolalus," Herc yells and in a heartbeat he's racing to the floor of the arena. There, in the sand lays Iolalus with blood covering his face. Bruises have already blossomed their sickly color across his bare torso. His wrists and ankles are bound with ropes that are tethered to four horses—horses I recognize from the Herene stables, the ones that Eury had taken for his celebration, the ones that Cy used to whisper to and care for. Eury, wearing a mask over his nose and mouth, stands on the dais with his guards.

At a nod from the Solon, the horses' new handler makes two clicking sounds. The horses each take two steps forward wrenching Iolalus up from the sand. His body pulls taut. His screams pierce through the arena that is barely half full. Either people haven't had time to get here or they simply no longer care to take part in anything Eury has to offer them. Some, seeing what is happening, immediately turn to leave.

The horses hold Iolalus in his torturous position for a moment. When their handler gives a sharp whistle they each take a step back. Iolalus's body drops to the sandy floor.

Herc, yelling Iolalus's name, runs to the floor of the arena and tries to loosen the rope binding his cousin's left wrist.

"Leave him," Eury commands. "He's a traitor."

Herc stands as if guarding Iolalus. "What has he done?"

"Look, people of Portaceae, see what this Iolalus has done." Eury rips off the mask to show the people the damage. Greyish purple splotches spread across his eyes, and his nose sits at an even odder angle than usual. He has done nothing to clean up the mess of blood that is now caked over his face, making the injury look worse than it really is. "He attacked me. Assaulted the Solon. That is treason. As the vault may soon be in use, we must take care of him in other ways." He gives a nod, the trainer clicks, the horses step, and Iolalus screeches so violently that chills fire from my feet through my spine.

A look of wild terror and utter pain disfigure Herc's face as his fingers scramble against Iolalus's bindings. He tries again to untie the ropes at Iolalus's wrists, but stretched taut the rope is even less maneuverable than when it was slack.

"You can end this another way," Eury calls over the cries of Iolalus.

"Anything," Herc yells, his voice pitched high, filled with panic. "I'll do anything. Now let him free."

Eury nods and at the trainer's command, the horses ease off. Herc's hands shake as he loosens the knot at Iolalus's wrist. I run down to help and am grateful that Iolalus has passed out. It at least saves him the pain of my fingers scraping against the raw skin under the ropes. Once his cousin is free, Herc picks him up, cradles him in his arms, and walks to the dais.

"What would you like next, Excellency?" Herc asks coolly. "No doubt, you have another task in mind for me. What is it now? Perhaps, I could push the snow from one side of the Hooded Mount to the other? I could just smash the Great Mountain Chain flat so we can have a better view. Or is there a diamond your whore wife wants? Maybe you just want me to truss up Hera herself and deliver her to your door. What will it be that will provide such a benefit to Portaceae that you had to torture our cousin to get me to do it?"

Eury flinches at the mention of Hera and his hand reaches to the mess on his face. The arena is so quiet I can hear the blood pulsing through my ears as we wait for the Solon's reply.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

### _Eury_

THE HERA COMMENT sends a jolt straight through my core and my hand reaches involuntarily to scratch at the throb in my nose. My cousin has no idea how close he is to the truth. Still, I refuse to rise to the bait of his insolence.

"Your instructions await you at the House of Hera. You have whatever time it takes."

"I'll be back within the week. Anything to get this over with and be done with you." The words growl from Herc's throat with such a rumble that my stomach clenches in fear. He storms off the arena floor, moving as if he carries no extra weight despite Iolalus hanging limply in his arms. Iole trails just behind them. I indicate my guards to follow her and I bring up the rear.

"Oh, and in place of the traitor Iolalus," I call out. "The priestess Iole will be held prisoner."

Herc spins, nearly dropping Iolalus in his haste.

"You will not touch her." Again, the growling, I half expect him to leap onto me and make a killing bite to my throat. Iole stands near him, her face pale with fear, but she still holds herself with proud assuredness. She touches his arm.

"Go, be done with this task and he'll have to free me."

The foolish woman. If she thinks she or my cousins will be escaping me so easily, she is terribly mistaken.

"Guards, take her."

Iole dares to hold my gaze, an amused grin on her lips. No doubt she thinks they won't touch her.

The guards step forward and this time they don't hesitate from grabbing the Herene by the arms and yanking her so hard she staggers. Her smug look drops and her eyes open wide with fear sending a surge of lust through me.

Herc's nostrils flare. Iolalus lets out a groan as his cousin's fingernails dig into his skin.

"Be quick, Herc," she calls as the guards drag her past him to my carriage. Two other guards flank me as I stride past my hulking cousin. Using a horse's weight of resolve, I keep my chin lifted as I avoid Herc's eye.

Once the Herene and I are in my carriage, the interior fills with the scent of her. The earthy aroma of Iole's fear mixes with the rose water she must cleanse herself in and creates a perfume that's as tempting as bread baking. I have a sudden urge to tear off a hunk to sample.

I stare at Iole, evaluating her. What could I do with her? Ah, yes, the future Herene brothel. Gods, how much would she fetch? I amuse myself by watching her avoid meeting my gaze as she rubs her arms where bruises are starting to form. She sits opposite me, but I slide across my leather bench seat so our knees are touching and lean toward her, my heart pounding with exhilaration.

She shifts to the other side of her bench, but this only gives me room to sit next to her. I squeeze in beside her and place my hand on her knee. She shrinks away, pressing herself closer to the window.

"You really are beautiful. I should have recognized your mother in you, long ago." I slide my hand up further but she slaps it away and crosses her legs at the knees. "Iole, I wouldn't tell. You wouldn't be punished. You can't tell me you aren't curious about what a man could do to you." I place my hand at her crotch. "Or for you."

She grabs my arm and flings it from her. I expect her to pull further away from me, melt into the wall of the carriage as far as she can, but she turns toward me, fury blazing in her green and gold eyes. So like her mother.

"I have no curiosity about you."

I lean back and laugh. "Ah, you have no curiosity about me, but that doesn't mean you aren't curious about men. Or rather, a particular man." I pause watching her discomfort. "Despite the fact that he slaughtered his children and bedded a complete stranger. You Herenes are a forgiving lot, aren't you?"

Her gaze shifts guiltily away. Having had my fun by piquing her discomfort, I switch back to my own bench as the carriage sways its way through the city's streets.

"Don't worry. I'm not taking you to the prison," I say when she glances worriedly out the window for the third time.

"Where then?"

"Why priestess, you'll be an honored guest in my home."

"I'd rather be dragged into the bowels of the Chasm to dine with Hades."

_If you feel that way now, wait until I'm done with you._

But I know I can do nothing until I defeat Hera. This is not the time to draw the goddess's attention any more than I already will have with this stunt. Taking her daughter as prisoner is justifiable. And I will stick to that truth no matter what Hera throws at me. Iole isn't the only one who can use the laws of Portaceae to her benefit. One look at my face will declare someone has committed treason and it is clear that someone must serve a sentence for the assault. Since Iole made herself a tribute's volunteer in the third task, according to the law, she has already proven herself a suitable substitute for my fiery-haired cousin.

But once Hera is defeated, once I have her power, the notion of the Herenes will be obliterated, dissolved like honey in hot tea. Then we'll see what becomes of this proud priestess. How long will she be able to wear that smug look of superiority once her mother is brought to nothing?

I stare at her imagining her begging for mercy. Something of my thoughts must show through in my face because Iole shifts in the bench seat hunching her shoulders away from me and tucking her dress tightly around her knees. Despite wanting him far away, I do hope Herc completes his task quickly. The moment Hera's source of power is in my hands I will rip that dress off Iole and parade her through the streets.

_Perhaps I'll make Hera watch._

I can't help but give a laugh at the thought. The sound makes Iole jump. The motion jiggles her pert breasts, which only makes me laugh harder.

Once to the villa, the guards escort Iole to a suite of rooms in the east wing of the villa. Yes, she is denied her freedom, but not even Hera can complain about the accommodations—a finely furnished sleeping chamber, a dressing chamber with clothes Adneta no longer cares for, and a sitting room with a well-stocked library. All for one person. Most of Portaceae City's population lives in two-room hovels, so what complaint could she possibly have?

Apparently plenty. Once the door is shut and locked, the Herene pounds on it and screams until her voice is raw. Her hands will have to be tended to, but not until she realizes her rampage against the door is pointless.

I go to my study to escape the noise of Iole's fury and to wipe the remaining blood from my face before I take Adneta her belt. Baruch had tended to the broken nose straight after the assault, but I told him to leave as much blood as possible. The people needed clear proof of my reason for taking Iolalus prisoner. Cleaning up the mess my cousin had made of my face would have left no evidence to convince the people of his treachery. Just as I drop the rag into the basin of bloody water, someone knocks at the door.

"Yes?"

Baruch's long face peers in, his expression as bored as ever.

"You've been summoned to the Gods' Room."

I roll my eyes and stomp up the stairs. The climb delivers a pulsing ache through my face that rushes straight to the tip of my nose with each step.

But the pain doesn't bother me. The sense of potential power has me as restless as if I've been filled with more electricity than the Osterian Council controls. I jog up the steps, not even bothering to count them as I make my ascent.

When I open the door, the Gods' Room is filled with a red light. No doubt it's meant to reflect Hera's anger, but instead of emphasizing her rage, it bathes her in a light that churns with passion. The sight of her, despite my desire to thwart her, sends the throbbing in my nose down to my groin.

Perhaps once she's watched me shame her daughter in the brothel, I'll make Hera join in the ranks of Portaceae's hired women. Although I won't sully Iole's goods until they've fetched me a bag of drachars, I can certainly satisfy my desires on the mother. But not yet. Not yet. My plans leave me longing for this meeting to be done so I can take Adneta's Amazonian gift to her and get some much needed release.

Hera turns on me, her face filled with fury.

"You've imprisoned my daughter."

"She's comfortable, safe."

"She's also innocent."

"But her companions are not. As you can see, I've been assaulted. Iolalus committed treason, but he's a volunteer to the tribute. Someone had to take his place until he's released from that duty. And, as you know, your daughter also volunteered herself and that makes her a replacement for Iolalus."

"This is ridiculous logic." She pounds her fist into her palm.

"I don't write the laws," I say with a shrug.

"You are such a frustrating mortal."

A crackling sense of electricity bolts through me and the room fills with blinding white light. By the time my vision clears, Hera is gone.

"I do so enjoy our meetings," I shout to the air.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

### _Herc_

I RUSH IOLALUS to the hospital wing of the House of Hera where several of the medics immediately begin assessing the damage done to his joints. Cecilia curses me for not bringing him in more quickly, then assures me he will walk again although she's uncertain how well his shoulders will heal. Only moments after seeing my cousin settled onto a bed, Cecilia calls out orders for Iolalus's treatment and the women begin rushing about to prepare medications and bandages.

As I stand beside my cousin wishing I could do something to help, one of the brown-robed acolytes delivers to me a message bearing the Solon's seal. I crack it open, scan the contents of the letter and then read them again with an irritation fuming inside of me.

"I'm to obtain a tree from the Garden of the Hesperides," I say with frantic exasperation as I waggle the letter at Iolalus who—despite his own pain—rolls his eyes at the stupidity of it. A tree. For the sake of the gods! Eury truly is the one who is mad. "The Hesperides! Have you heard of them, because I haven't."

His voice strained with agony, Iolalus says, "Consult with Maxinia. She has maps."

The medics reappear with salves and gauze and shoo me away so they can do their work. I reluctantly leave my cousin in their care to seek out Maxinia who, as she often is, is busy with her books in Iole's office. The moment I step into the room a longing stabs through me. The room smells of Iole's skin after it has been freshly washed in the rose water soap the Herenes make.

I inform Maxinia of what has happened. In her stalwart manner she takes the news in stride, but from her pensive expression I can tell her mind is already working out what she needs to tend to during Iole's absence. Without a second thought she reaches for a shield-sized book of maps. The garden in Eury's letter is nowhere to be found.

"I advise you to go here," she says pointing to the southeast portion of Osteria. "It's uncharted land. If the garden isn't mapped out in the other regions, it would have to be here. We need to get you kitted up. Take two horses, one for yourself, the other for supplies. Food, weapons of course, but also a burlap bag for the tree's roots." She stops. "What sort of tree did you say?"

"A fruit tree. For his garden, I assume."

"Not an apple tree, is it?"

"No," I lie. "The letter doesn't say."

In truth, Eury's letter expressly commands that I tell no one in Portaceae what I'm after. The message instructs me to find a tree that bears apples of gold and that I may take as long as I need to find it. My initial assumption for the secrecy is that Eury doesn't want the people of the polis—who are desperate to see food on their tables and their homes repaired—to know he possesses a tree that produces gold. But Maxinia's direct question sends a chill through me. Eury's desire to own this tree surely has another motive behind it than just the profitable fruit the tree might bear.

Still, I can't raise her suspicions any further. I won't be thwarted or delayed from this task regardless of the consequences or benefits it brings Eury. There is no option; I have to get the tree to keep Iole and Iolalus from more danger than I have already put them in. Even if this tree does have some special significance that Maxinia's question hints at, I must get it to keep them alive.

"Well," she says eying me suspiciously, "leave any apple tree, especially if its fruit shows even a hint of gold. I'll alert the kitchens to prepare your food. You get your gear in order. You'll want to get as early a start tomorrow as possible."

"I intend to leave tonight."

"It's already sunset. The gates will close in an hour."

"Then we should hurry."

* * *

Once I've gathered my gear, I return to Iolalus who now has five Herene medics tending to him. I don't fail to notice they happen to be five of the youngest and prettiest medics in the hospital wing.

As much as I want his company on this journey, I don't have time to wait for Iolalus to convalesce. Not with Iole in Eury's hands. I fear leaving Iolalus in Portaceae. If Eury is willing to imprison a Herene, there's no reason he won't take Iolalus again. Still, he needs rest or the damage done will give him agony for all his days—of which I can now only guess how many there'll be left.

Why have I not realized Eury's treachery before now? Iole had it figured out ages ago. Why haven't I noticed? Loyalty. Duty. What have they earned me but death and threats to those who care for me?

The medics notice me approaching the bed and skitter away trying to cover their giggling smiles with their hands.

"You'll need to stay here," I say to Iolalus and explain to him the task and Maxinia's instructions.

"I want to go." Iolalus, possibly emboldened by pain medication or the women's attention, tries to push himself up but a stout nurse pushes him back down. "It's too far to go alone."

If Maxinia's guess is correct, he's right.

My task will require me to travel to the edge of Osteria. Far south and east to the foothills of the mountains where the Middish dwell. Few Osterians ever travel so far. The Middish are wild. Some say they breed with animals to become like them, others said they're related to the mutants of the Maisland that live in the plains beyond the Middish Mountains. Whatever they are, they're dangerous. More likely to send a spear through your gut than to run and hide.

A hole is growing in the pit of my stomach from the thought that I will fail this task. For the first time since facing the lion, I fear I won't succeed. And what then? What then? I will lose two more loved ones. And, despite my betrayal of her with Lyta, I do love Iole. I'd been swayed by the idea of escape, by the hope for power, and by the temptation of passion, but now that I've returned, now that Lyta is no more, now that I am awake to Eury's vileness, I must return to my duty to do what is best for this polis and those I care for.

"I only have to go to the edge of the Middish range. We've all taken our turn serving out there and the vigiles have always been able to handle themselves against the Middish. They're sneaky and tough, but I'll have the chestnut and the lion skin. I'll be well-protected."

"What does he want with a damn tree anyway?" He sucks in breath through his teeth as one of the pretty medics, her face filled with apology, dabs at the wounds circling his ankles. "He could buy one from any grower in the Illamos Valley or Cedonia."

"He says this one can bring him gold," I say vaguely.

"Gold I'm certain will be spent on himself or his wife, not Portaceae." Iolalus grimaces when the nurse places a healing compress on his ankle.

Cecilia appears and hands Iolalus a cup.

"We're going to have to reset your shoulders," she says brusquely. "You'll want to be well asleep for it."

Iolalus drains the cup and pulls a bitter expression at the contents. Before he can complain, his eyes are already drooping. I turn to go but he grips my hand.

"When this is done we really should get rid of him," his words slur as he tries to hold his lids open. "We'd make terrific leaders." His eyes close and his breathing takes on the deep rhythm of sleep.

I pat his hand. "You'd make a great leader," I say quietly before ducking out to gather my weapons and the pelt.

_I can't even protect the people I care about._

The ever-practical Maxinia must have organized the kitchen and stables herself. By the time I leave the hospital wing, traveling packs stuffed with food are mounted on Iolalus's black steed and my chestnut has been saddled. The great woman nods with approval and holds my bridle as I mount my horse.

"Here." She hands me up a slip of paper.

"Eury sent a travel permit?"

"No, but I've seen enough of them to draw up a fair copy. It's not a train pass, only a permit to travel. As long as no one looks closely, you'll be fine. Stick to unmanned border crossings, that shouldn't be hard where you're going." I thank her as I tuck the pass into my pouch. "And no apple trees. Understand?"

* * *

To reach the uncharted lands on Maxinia's map requires several days of hard riding. I consider trying to sneak aboard a train, but with two horses I would be too conspicuous. Instead, I let the horses run as fast as they desire. Left to their own, the immortal steeds can move with more speed than a gale wind without tiring. It isn't as comfortable as a train, but it's certainly a faster mode of travel.

Moving south through Portaceae, I'm able to pass into the Illamos Valley polis without trouble. The border guard throws a quick glance at my pass and waves me through. From the valley, I ride east through a little used pass of the Great Mountains and gallop past an unmanned border station into the polis of Bendria. When I try to leave Bendria to enter into the vast stretch of Osterian lands that are neither polis nor kingdom, I'm halted at the border's check point.

The border man who resembles the quarter giants that make up Eury's Solonian Guard not only looks at my pass when I present it, but snatches it from my hand and takes it into his booth for closer inspection. Several moments later he comes back out, circles the horses assessing them with a critical eye, and then tells me to dismount.

"What's your purpose in Bendria?" he demands.

"No purpose. It just happens to be between Portaceae and my destination."

"Are you trying to be smart?"

"Not at all," I say with as much deference as I can muster. Gods, how I wish Iolalus was the one doing the talking. "I only meant this was the more direct route."

"To where?"

This is a question I've already planned for. In truth, it's the first place I would flee to if I ever need to get Iole and Iolalus out of Portaceae City.

"To Minoa. Minos is a close friend." This is stretching the truth, but I hope it will, if not impress, at least mollify the guard.

He looks at the pass again.

"Travel passes for unlimited amounts of time are hard to come by."

_Not when you have a crafty and clever Herene to help. _

"As I said, Minos is a close friend."

The guard again takes the pass into his booth where I can't see what he's up to. How long can it take to look over a small piece of parchment? It's so long before he steps back out I begin to think perhaps the warmth of the afternoon has put him to sleep. After long days and nights of hard travel during which I've taken little sleep myself, I lean up against the chestnut and start to doze.

I'm jolted awake when the door of the booth bangs shut. The guard scrutinizes me, his face so stern I wonder if he has lost the muscles to form a smile. I hold his gaze waiting for him to tell me to turn back or to arrest me. If he reaches for the cuffs dangling from his belt, I will run. In a heartbeat I can be on the chestnut's back and clear half the distance to the Middens before this hulk ever mounts his own steed that is tethered in the field behind the station.

"I've seen all I need to see," he says. His hand reaches to his belt and my body tenses. He thrusts his arm out toward me. My legs twitch ready to leap, but instead of cuffs, he offers the pass back to me. "Good journey."

I take the pass and stuff it in my waist pouch. Throwing my leg over the chestnut, I urge the horse to a gallop before the guard can change his mind.

* * *

It's late afternoon on my fourth day of hard riding that I see three eagles circling overhead. Large eagles at least three times the size of any I've observed hunting for fish along the Illamos River. One swoops down behind an outcrop of rock, disappears from view, and then soars again dangling a piece of meat from its beak. As I near the outcrop another eagle dives. This time I hear a scream before the bird flies again with its own chunk of flesh. I slow the horses to a walk and, worrying that the birds may decide to attack, slip on the lion's pelt before riding around to the hidden side of the rock.

There, a huge man, at least the size of the Herene Maxinia, is chained by his hands and wrists to rings set into the rock. He breathes with the harsh ragged gasps of pain, but I can see no wound. Another eagle swoops down. The man thrashes as if he can frighten it off, but the bird plunges in feet first, talons extended. It pauses, sticking horizontally from the man's body as he wails in agony. The pony-sized bird flaps its wings and, as it pulls itself back into flight, tears a gaping hole in the man's abdomen.

I dismount and run to him, my bow and quiver bouncing against my back. It's only a short distance—four to five strides at the most—but by the time I get to him the wound has healed.

He lolls his head to look at me. His expression more annoyed than agonized.

"A bit of help?"

An eagle heads toward him and he grits his teeth ready for the attack. Without thought I ready my bow, notch an arrow, follow the descending bird, and fire. The eagle drops to the man's feet. He lets out a sigh of relief, then looks up.

"There's a couple more targets, if you don't mind," he says as if indicating tea and cookies are ready on the table.

With two rapid shots I take down his tormentors.

"And if you wouldn't mind?" He rattles the chains that bind him to the rock.

I eye him. Although sweat-stained and disheveled he doesn't have the wild look of the Middish. He's also much too large to be one of the diminutive mountain people, but neither does he have the undersized head of a full giant. Still, he must have committed some crime to be left in such a manner.

"I played a trick on Zeus," he says in answer to my hesitation. "A stupid trick nothing to be uptight about, but, well, that's Zeus for you. No sense of humor and worse than Hera when it comes to forgiving and forgetting. At least she's rumored to have forgiven someone. Once. I think. But Zeus? No, very stubborn, so obviously a youngest child. Now, a bit of help?"

I can't say why, but I immediately like the man. He clearly wants free—who wouldn't?—but gives the impression that he won't hold it against me if I walk away. I slip my sword from the scabbard, raise it with both hands and hack at the chain binding his right wrist.

"Good gods, man, a bit of warning before you do that."

"There'll be three more coming. Unless you prefer to stay that way."

"No, apologies for the complaint. Chop away."

Three more swings and he's free. He makes a great show of stretching his massive arms, arching his muscular back, twisting his bronzed torso, and kicking his redwood-thick legs.

"You don't know how good that feels."

"How long have you been there?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Couldn't say precisely, but I believe it's been about sixty-four years, four months, six days, and just a tad over ten hours. Not that I've been counting, mind you. Now you'll be wondering who I am." I give a quick nod of my head. "Let's see if you can guess." His steel grey eyes glint with mischievous amusement. "Over some roast eagle perhaps?"

He has to be joking. There's nothing in this rocky, dry landscape to burn. Not even a patch of grass grows in the hard-packed ground.

The man claps his hands together.

"Any guesses yet?" he asks.

"Not yet," I respond. I'm amused, but also cautious. This could be some ruse to distract my attention, and with his size, I would stand little chance against him.

He slowly moves his hands apart. "I hope this still works. It's been a while, you know? About sixty-four years, four months, six days, and just a tad over ten hours to be exact."

Once his palms are about a hand's width apart, a ball of flame appears. He settles the flame onto a flat rock. As he moves his hands apart, the flame grows until it's an arm's length wide. He then teases his hands above it bringing the flame higher. My heart pounds with recognition of who is before me.

"Prometheus." I drop to my knees.

"Oh, good Hades, get up. I'm a titan, not one of your praise-seeking gods."

I rise, unsure what to do in the face of the being that gave all men fire in the darkest days after The Disaster. He doesn't hesitate. "Here, drag that damned bird over to this rock."

I do as he asks. Once in place, he surrounds the huge bird in flame. The stench of burning feathers assaults my nostrils, but I'm soon rewarded with the scent of roasting poultry. He sits by the fire and I follow suit.

"So what brings you to the edge of Osteria?"

I feel no need to lie to the titan. After all, who would he tell? Plus, I hope he might tell me which way to head.

"I'm sent to find the golden tree of the Hesperides."

Prometheus eyes me. I know one wrong word and the flames before me could easily be directed onto my flesh, roasting me just as they had the eagle. I tell him of all that has happened with Eury, the tasks, Iole, and even Lyta. When I'm finished, he sits for a while staring into the fire before he speaks.

"The tree you're after belongs to Hera and is in the garden of my nieces, the nymphs of the Hesperides. Because the girls can be a bit precocious, a bit forgetful about who should and shouldn't be in the garden, Hera also has another guardian for her plants."

"Which is?"

"Oh, just a hundred-eyed dragon. A reasonable precaution because whoever possesses that tree will have control over Hera. It is her— How do I describe it? Are you familiar with the Pre-Disaster religions, some of them had a concept of a soul. The body's essence of life."

I give a hesitant nod. I remember hearing something of it in my school days when studying the cultures of the people beyond the Middens and also that of the Pre-Disaster people who once occupied all the land from Osteria in the west to Anglia far to the east. As I knew I would be entering into the vigiles by that time in my education, I didn't work hard at those studies, but still the concept of soul strikes me as familiar.

"Good, then you understand if you take a soul—for lack of better word—you control that person. Or in this case, goddess."

"Eury means to do away with Hera?" I ask.

"Not exactly do away with her, but to take her power for himself. Along with her power, Eury will also receive her immortality—the gift of the gods as your Olympian gods like to say even though we titans have it as well. Hera will be alive, but she will be mortal. You'll make up your own mind, but I'd advise you that no man should have the power of the gods. You lot are just too impulsive and short-sighted. Ah, I believe this bastard is ready to be eaten by me for a change." With a wave of his hand, he lowers the flames until they're only the size of embers. He then twists a leg off the bird and bites in. "You'll want to wait a bit. The heat doesn't bother me." He chews and swallows with a satisfied grin. "This is a nice change. And you won't regenerate this, you avian bugger," he says shaking the leg at the rest of the carcass.

I use my dagger to cut out a portion of the breast and, with my thoughts pushing my hunger to the background, I eat slowly. Hera is no friend of mine as she has proven time and again. I have no doubt it was she who brought on the Amazonian riot that killed Lyta and she who allowed Eury to become Solon instead of me. I owe her no allegiance.

But if Eury has her power? Possessing the tree would put her might in his hands including her immortality. Iolalus is right, the vigiles he's been plotting with are right—we need to rid Portaceae of Eury. If he possesses this tree it will make defeating or deposing him impossible. But Hera. She's no better. Gods forgive me, but I would prefer to be rid of them both. Or to forget them both and run to Minoa. But yet, I can't flee from this task. The lives of both Iole and Iolalus depend on me bringing Eury this damned tree.

"Where is the garden?" I ask.

"Still going to do it?" He shrugs as if my decision makes no difference to him. "It's a shame I can't say where the tree is."

"You don't know where the garden of your nieces is?"

"No, only their father does. My brother Atlas." Prometheus tosses a cluster of bones behind him and rips off the eagle's other leg.

"And where would I find him?" I ask as I slice another portion of meat from the eagle's breast.

"Just south of here. Look, see in the distance where the stars arc across the sky? He's under there. Literally. You'll have a trek getting to him but those horses should have little trouble."

"And any hints on how to get past the garden's dragon?"

"Don't go."

"I must go. Two lives depend on it."

"No, don't be stupid. Don't go. Send Atlas. After all, he's the only one who can get in. Parental rights or something."

"And he'll just go for the asking?"

"You'd be amazed at how dimwitted my brother can be. He and I are the only two—"

His words dwindle off. "Only two what?" I prod.

"I shouldn't say. No," he says shaking his head and throwing a thigh bone into the fire. "Damn my brothers and sisters, what loyalty do I have to them? You're the one who saved me, right?" His disjointed questions have me wondering if perhaps Prometheus has spent too many hours in the sun while chained to his rock. I don't know what to say, but he continues without my input. "The titans are getting restless. That's why the earthquakes have been increasing. They've gone through this before, several times, in fact—they get jealous of The Twelve and wage war against humans to knock the gods down a notch. After all, with no humans to idolize them, the gods are nothing. It may come to naught, but I'm tired of holding my siblings' secret."

"Do the gods know?"

"I can't see how they don't. Like I said, they've gone through this before. They should know the warning signs. But sometimes the gods, like men, choose to see only what they want to see, not what's directly under their noses. My hope is that they're making preparations. Now, human, rest. The world isn't going anywhere. Not tonight anyway," he says with a half-hearted chuckle.

As much as I feel compelled to jump on my horse and complete this task, and despite the worries building and pressing on my mind, my exhaustion hurtles me into a deep sleep.

* * *

I wake to Prometheus shaking my shoulder.

"See the arc of dawn?" Prometheus points to the southeast. The sky still carries the darkness of night, but a hint of pinkish-orange can be seen just at its edge. "That's where you're heading."

Prometheus has roasted another eagle during the night. I eat my fill and then mount my chestnut. Before I can ride off, Prometheus puts a hand to my reins.

"Remember, Atlas must be the one to go to the Gardens regardless of what you choose for him to retrieve."

I nod. "Stay on the good side of Zeus. I don't know if I'll be around next time to help you out."

He laughs. "And you stay on Hera's good side. I hear she has one if you look hard enough. And with her on your side, you can get all you desire."

I resist scoffing at his words. The idea of Hera and I on the same side or of her doing anything that would cause me happiness is as ridiculous as imagining an Arean who longs for peace.

I drive the horses hard for another two full days, making certain that I'm approaching the arc of dawn, then the arc of the stars. All the while, thoughts of Iole and Iolalus fill my head only to be replaced with scorn for Hera. As I ride, memories of Athena's words creep in on me. She said Hera hated me. Why? And she had hinted at something of that hatred to do with my children's deaths. My stomach churns, surely not even Hera can be so vile as to take a man's children from him in such a manner. I think again of how little I owe Hera and how much I am coming to despise her.

On the third afternoon I find the titan I've been searching for. Bigger than Prometheus by at least half, Atlas would have been a sight to behold even if he wasn't performing his duty. In his labor he seems a work of art—an enormous being, bursting with muscle, pressing up the heavy blanket of sky. Out of nowhere I wonder if Stavros ever travelled this far on his many journeys. Stavros. My throat fills with a lump. Another dead because of me, because of Hera, because of Eury. I dismount and hobble the horses.

"Atlas, I assume?"

"Where?"

"You. You're Atlas." Gods, he truly is dim. "I need a favor from you."

"I don't have any favors. I don't think. I could check in my boot."

"It's not something you have, it's something you do."

"I can't do anything with this on my shoulders. I'm much too busy."

"What if I took the burden for you? A break would be nice, wouldn't it? To go visit your daughters, perhaps."

"I would like to see my girls."

"Good and while you're there—" I tell him what I need him to retrieve. What treasure from the garden I've decided will be best for me and for Portaceae.

Atlas shifts the weight of the sky onto my shoulders. I stagger a few steps, but catch my balance. The pressure is unbelievable. I thought it would only feel like air, like a child's ball on my back, but this is like carrying a million wool blankets sodden with rain. The feel of the sky isn't smooth, nor is it rough; it's just an enormous pressure. I fear I'll be several inches shorter if Atlas doesn't hurry with his visit.

With the weight of the firmament off his shoulders, Atlas skips off like a child at play. I can only hope he won't forget where he's headed. At first my mind can think of little as I wrestle to endure the strain and to fight back the overwhelming desire to toss down the sky, but over time the discomfort turns to more of an annoyance than agony and my mind wanders in spirals that always close in Iole.

She has no reason to care for me, not after my betrayal with the queen, and she may even hate me, but if she wasn't a Herene could things be different between us? If Iolalus was Solon he could dissolve my marriage, Iole could leave her duties, and I could wed her. The possibilities become impossibilities and then back again to possible as I hunch over bearing the weight of the sky.

Slowly the burden on my shoulders begins to darken over me. I worry I'll be left under it all night being slowly crushed into the ground. After the sun has traded places with the moon, and the stars have started their evening dance, I finally detect the thudding steps of Atlas as he whistles an unfamiliar tune.

"I'm back. I went across that river and then—"

"No," I cut him off. I have no desire to know the location of the garden. I do not wish to be the human who knows this secret. A scowl creases Atlas's face. Although he's as daft as Prometheus said, Atlas like all titans is quick to anger. If I don't want him storming off in a rage, I have to appease him. "I know how much you want to get back to your work and wouldn't want you wasting your time on traveler's tales."

He looks at me, tilting his head like a curious dog. "Nah, I think I can take this to Portaceae." He holds up the burlap sack. "You're good at that," he says gesturing with the bag to my shoulders. "You can do it from now on."

I want him to be joking but he's much too dimwitted for humor. My shoulders take on a new dimension of pain as I imagine holding this weight until I collapse under it. I will be crushed under the sky as Eury takes his vengeance out on Iole. And after he is done with her, it won't be long before he discovers Iolalus. I have to place my hope and their lives in the hands of Atlas's slow wits.

"That's a great idea," I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

"I know. Okay, bye." He turns to leave.

"No, wait," I call him back. "If I'm to be left here, could you bring me my cloak to pad my shoulders? It's there on my horse."

"Sounds good." He sets down the burlap sack. The horse, dwarfed by the titan, shies a little when Atlas approaches, but then allows the hulking being to remove the lion's pelt from the saddlebag. He returns, holding the cloak out for me to take. "Here you go."

"There's a slight problem. I'll need you to hold this while I put my cloak on. We can't let the sky fall, can we?"

"No, no, it's very bad when that happens. Very bad." He places the lion's pelt on the ground and shifts the sky from my back. The sensation of lightness shrieks through my upper body as blood rushes back into the smothered flesh. I grab the lion skin, scoop up the sack, and step backward to the horses. With a move taught to vigiles in case they need to get their horses moving in a heartbeat while serving on patrol, I whisk both hobbles off in two hasty tugs.

"Hey, that wasn't the deal," he protests.

"Yes, actually it was." I swing up onto the chestnut, tie the sack to the saddle, and urge the horses into a run.

I ride non-stop, driving the horses as fast as I can, convinced I'll never get to Portaceae before Iolalus is discovered or Iole forced to submit to Eury's punishment. The entire time I ride, a fear screams at me that I am already too late. That Iole and Iolalus are dead and I am to blame. I spur the horses faster every time this thought grasps hold of my mind. The need to stay balanced in the speeding horse's saddle blots out all other worries.

Not wanting to pass again through Bendria, I ride north then west through the polis of Demos and into Cedonia where I have little trouble making it through the border crossings. In Cedonia, I drive the horses even further north, crossing the Great Col and then riding west to the outskirts of the polis of Helena to avoid the districts of Portaceae that are now held by the Areans. While I want to be part of the fight against them, this is not the time. The diversion puts me into the foothills of the Low Mountains, prime bandit territory. In my haste, I outpace each of the three groups of thieves that try to chase me down.

On the fourth night of riding I finally rein the horses to a hard stop in front of Portaceae City's gates. I call out for Odysseus, but instead of the vigile, I'm greeted by the craggy face of one of the Solonian Guards. My heart sinks. I've already spent more time gone than I had planned. I do not want another delay.

"Gates are closed," he grumbles.

"I'm on Solonian business," I say. "Let me through."

"Gates are closed," he repeats sending a wave of irritation through me.

"They will be opened. I am working on His Excellency's orders."

"The gates will open at dawn. Sleep in the field until then." With that, he shutters himself back into the gatehouse.

The number and variety of curses that spew from my mouth would have greatly impressed Iolalus who insists I never speak like a proper, or rather, improper vigile. Too restless to stop, I ride around the city walls looking for a place where the earthquakes may have loosened the stones enough for me to crawl through. As I pass one of the old gatehouses—one that had fallen into such disrepair that a couple years ago it collapsed in on a traveler passing through and has remained boarded up ever since—a voice calls to me.

"Couldn't outsmart a Solonian Guard, eh? That might just make you stupider than a pony's fart."

"Odysseus?" I whisper looking around.

"In the flesh. Come through."

"The gate's boarded."

"Normally we expect a password, but if you couldn't outthink one of the Guards, you'd probably just forget it anyway. In you go." As he speaks, the boards blocking what I assume to be rubble, roll back as if they're on wheels guided by a track. Once open, they reveal the archway of the gate has been rebuilt. "We like to keep our little secrets," Odysseus says with a shrug.

"Who did this?" I ask as the thick boards are rolled back into place.

"The brothel paid a hefty portion of it. They get more business if customers can visit under the cover of darkness. The rest was mostly volunteer work."

"You're a genius."

"It was Iolalus's idea. He's a clever one that cousin of yours even if he does look like the inside of a centaur's ass." I agree with him, about the cleverness, not the centaur's ass part. "We wanted a way out if Eury ever blocked the main gate, which he did several days ago. He declared the guarding of the gates was no longer part of vigile duty and put his own guards on the watch. He says it's to defend against the Areans, but no one believes that pile of horse crap."

After offering my thanks and saying my goodbyes, I hurry to Eury's veranda. In complete defiance of Eury's curfew, a crowd of people from the city have followed me to the premises. As they cheer my name from a distance that is just far enough to make it difficult to clearly identify any one of the group, I pound on the villa's main door. The manservant Baruch answers.

"Tell your master to come out. His treasure awaits." As he turns I shout, "And tell him to bring the priestess or he won't receive a thing."

He gives a brief nod before shutting the door behind him. I untie the sack from my horse and place it in front of me. In little time, Eury yanks open the door. The excitement bursting over his face is quickly replaced with aggravation as he looks about.

"Where is it? You didn't get it did you? Why even return?"

"Where is Iole? You'll get nothing until I see she is safe."

As if on cue, a Solonian Guard opens the door and orders someone to step outside but to make no attempts to run. Iole, looking defiant, takes her time walking over the threshold. When she sees me, a warm and welcoming smile makes her face glow. My heart swells and then picks up speed at the sight of her. Although her hands are wrapped in cloth bandages, she appears unharmed. And beautiful.

"Here is your Herene," Eury says. "Now where is the tree?"

"It's here," I reach into the sack and pull out one golden apple from the dozen that Atlas collected for me. The fruit's metallic skin glints in the light coming from the lantern held by Baruch.

"That's not what I said," Eury complains like a spoiled child who hasn't received the gift he wanted for his birthday. "I said an apple tree."

"Inside the apple are seeds which can grow into several trees. You said to take as long as I needed. I think five years should produce at least two or three healthy saplings."

"You son of a whore. This is not what I meant." Eury slams his fist onto the veranda railing then yells like a beast in pain.

"Well, if you aren't interested," I hold the apple in the flat of my palm. My chestnut reaches his neck forward and takes the treat in two bites.

Eury clutches a thumbless hand to his chest. I hope whatever accident has happened to him was agonizing. "Tell me where you got it. I'll go myself."

"From the Garden of the Hesperides, like you said. But, since I haven't been there, I have no idea where it is. You'll just have to find it yourself, Excellency."

"Guards, arrest him. Arrest him and bury him this night."

Four bulky men appear from the darkness. Exhausted from the mad pace the horses maintained and my lack of sleep, I don't have the speed or strength to escape them or fend them off. Two guards latch onto my arms and two others flank them. I shout Iole's name as her guard ushers her back into the villa and mine drag me away with my feet scraping and kicking against the ground. The horses follow after me, whinnying as if wondering what this new game is. Although from their distance they can't possibly understand all that is happening, the crowd lingering at the property's edge shouts my name, cries for Iole, and hurls insults at Eury.

My thoughts run not to fear, not to the horror I will face in the blood crime vault, but to Iole and Iolalus. I have failed them to protect Portaceae from an undefeatable, all-powerful Eury and to protect Hera, the goddess who hates me. I hope my cousin and my love can forgive me. And I hope their deaths are swifter than mine will be.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

### _Hera_

"HE DID IT," I mutter as my view from Olympus fogs with a vision of the bastard outside of Eury's villa.

Demeter looks up from a pile of seeds she has been sorting. Truly, I do love her, but I wish she would leave her grains and such out of our common area on Olympus. Besides, such tasks are for mortals, not for the gods. But when she sees my expression, she quickly leaves it to come to my side.

"What is it? Has something happened?"

"The bastard risked everything to keep my power out of Eury's hands." I explain to her what I've seen. It pains me to see him risk Iole, but it is truly proof of his worthiness.

"You can't let him die," she insists. "The other, the one who betrayed you deserves to die."

She's right. If ever a man deserves the title of bastard, it's Eury, not Herc. How dare that pestilent little mortal try to steal a god's power?

"Trust me, Eury will not get away with this execution. Herc—" I grit my teeth to say the name "—deserves a chance at life even if he doesn't deserve my daughter. Please, excuse me."

In a flash, I leave Demeter to her seeds and appear in the lawn outside of Eury's gaudy villa. I stand dead center blocking the path of the guards who are hauling Herc behind them.

"Release him." The idiots pause, their mouths gaping with awe. "Are you deaf as well as stupid? Let him go."

Eury runs up shouting at the guards.

"Why have you—" He pauses when he sees me. Shame and then a scowl cross his face. "Don't you have anything better to do than meddle in my business?"

I don't want to let him know I've seen what was in his heart, what he had intended to do, the plans Herc has thwarted.

"The people were so adamantly calling Herc's name, I wondered if you had died. I came to show my concern. But it appears you have matters in your own hands."

"Yes, and without your help."

"But look at him." Herc, now on his feet but still with two guards clutching his upper arms, stands proud, strong, and defiant. "You can't drag him off and kill him."

"Why not?"

"As you told me, he still has an oath to fulfill, another task to complete. And you know if you kill him the people will revolt. So, surely your little mind can think of a task. Preferably one from which he won't return."

Eury's lips curl into a knowing smirk. I know he has something in mind. Something no human can survive. But I can assure Herc does.

"Go to the depths of Hades's realm and bring back Cerberus," Eury says to his cousin. "Adneta's always wanted a dog."

"You can't be serious," Herc blurts. "No one returns from there."

"That's the point."

"I have no reason to do this. Kill me now."

"Please don't tempt me cousin. Despite Hera's protection this time," Eury fires me a condescending look, "I will kill you and then I will send guards to the House of Hera where you think you have Iolalus hidden and kill him as well. Following that, I will ensure Iole dies, of shame if nothing else. Return with the dog and they will both be spared."

My fists clench digging my fingers into my palms. How dare he threaten my daughter? My true power still resides in the Garden of the Hesperides, but I have never felt so powerless. I want Eury dead, but the gods do not have the right to take mortal lives. I force myself to remain calm. Let him be angry, let him devise his worst for his cousin because however bad he thinks it will be, I will ensure it comes back tenfold onto him. But for now, I can only wait and hope he digs his own grave with his treachery and greed.

Herc tilts his head in a barely perceptible nod. "I'll go."

"Don't worry, cousin," Eury says in a mocking tone. "I'll be certain you have a rail permit. Round trip. Wouldn't want to seem pessimistic, would we? You'll leave in the morning. Guards."

The guards shove Herc out of their grip and follow Eury as he marches back into his home. Herc glares at me making no effort to hide his hatred.

"Why not just kill me now?"

"Gods can meddle in human lives but we cannot take them. You humans seem to do that well enough on your own. Now, go bring back the three-headed dog, Cerberus."

"It's impossible. I might as well try to build a home on Mount Olympus. Or," he adds with a chilly bitterness, "make my children live."

I lean forward to him. He flinches and eyes me warily, but does not step away.

"I thank you for what you've done. I owe you a great debt," I say feeling my face clench at the words. He truly is the hero as Iole has always insisted, but it does not make it any easier to humble myself to him. "You will return. I guarantee," I whisper as I press a coin into his hand.

I leave him standing bewildered at my words. Within a heartbeat I arrive at the mouth of the Chasm. The black outer pool stinks of wet rot while the heat coming off the stones soaks through my sandals.

From behind me I hear the familiar flutter of Hermes's twin pair of wings.

"Hera, come to pay your brother a visit?"

"Not really. I need a favor from him."

"This way then, but he really doesn't like granting favors. Still, you are his only sister—"

Hermes chatters on as he guides me through an opening at the back of the cave. Within the Chasm, the air is different but not better—a charred tang of putrescence rather than a moist one—but at least the stones are cooler.

In his cavern—modeled on the gods' temples and our dwellings on Olympus—Hades runs about throwing something that Cerberus bounds after.

"Hades," Hermes calls. "You've got a guest."

Hades pulls in the long leash he keeps tethered to his three-headed dog. In the jaws of the center head is a hand that still has shreds of flesh hanging from it. The other two heads snap playfully at the prize as the center head jerks up, then ducks down to keep the treasure from them. With his pet by his side, Hades stomps over to us. As he nears, I see his hair is in its usual wild red and black spikes. His black eyes scowl in anger until he realizes it's me.

"Sister, paying a visit?" He says as he wraps me into a hug.

"Perhaps another time." The smell of sulfur emanates from my brother's pores. I gently back out of the embrace, forcing myself not to stifle my nose. "I need a favor."

"You? Are you suddenly feeling soft? Two lovers who can't bear to be parted from one another, perhaps?"

Cerberus thumps down to the floor and begins gnawing on the hand. The bones crunch as the center head breaks off the thumb leaving the rest of the hand free. Both the side heads dive for the treat and end up crashing their snouts together. Their simultaneous yelps echo through the cavern.

"Nothing of the sort. A man will come here. A living man who will have paid Charon with one of my coins. He will want your Cerberus. I'm asking you to let him have her."

"Not my Cerby," Hades says. He clutches the leash tighter as he looks down with admiration at his strange pet.

"I promise she will be returned if you let the man back out of your realm."

"That's not how things work here. Besides, it's impossible. First, he'll wake the dead and you know they have certain cravings when they wake. Second, if he makes it out, Cerby has very particular needs."

"Kept on leash, fed twice a day, it's not a challenge to maintain a dog even if it does have three heads. And I have reason to believe he can outrun your dead no matter how strong their hunger."

"Cerby doesn't travel well."

"Please, Hades, it's to help your nephew."

"Which one? Gods know how many there are."

"I don't need reminded of that," I say narrowing my eyes at him. "It's Herc."

"Oh ho ho!" Cerby looks up at her master's chortle and gives her heads a questioning tilt. "So the jealous Hera is finally taking pity on the great Herc Dion. What brought this about?"

Little brothers can be so annoying, but slapping him won't get me what I want.

"I realized I made a mistake. A bad lapse of judgment. Now stop gloating. Will you do it?"

"Yes, fine, but only if he treats her well and only if my Cerby is brought back quickly. It's lonely here. The dead are so boring and my wife—"

Oh gods, not Persephone again. Does he really expect the girl to love him when he kidnapped her from her true love? I cut him off as gently as possible swearing to him the dog will be well treated and well fed before making my excuses to leave.

Hermes and I head to the mouth of the cavern.

"I'm not going to make it easy though," Hades calls after me. "What fun would that be?"

## CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

### _Herc_

FOR SEVERAL DAYS, Osterian scenery rolls by without earning my attention as the train rattles its way along the Great Col River to the Chasm. My mind is simply too distracted with what this task will require and filled with doubts of whether I will see it through or not. In every sense of the word, this task is my final one. This is no chore I can bluff, charm, or battle my way through. And, regardless of Hera's assurance of my survival, I have no reason to believe or trust her.

Entering into the Chasm as a still-living being will leave me at the mercy of Hades. If he chooses not to let me out—the hairs on my arms prickle at the thought—I will be dead, but not dead. When Eury realizes I have failed, Iole and Iolalus won't survive long. The idea sends my mind racing in circles trying to find a solution to a problem whose details are a complete unknown.

Passengers board and deboard over the journey, but as the train travels further east, fewer and fewer people climb onto the cars. By the time the train pulls into its final stop, a station that looks as deserted as the landscape, I'm the only passenger remaining.

The rambling hills spreading out north and west from the station are a multi-hued patchwork of pastureland, but a glance to the east reminds me this is no idyllic setting. The station perches at the edge of a steep cliff that makes my head spin when I dare to peek over the stone wall. A face of jagged rock dotted here and there with scrubby trees and low-growing shrubs plunges down in a nearly vertical line. Up the other side of the Chasm juts the jagged teeth of another line of mountains that appear ready to bite the sky. Winding along the bottom of the valley and separating the two rock faces flows a dark river: the Styx.

All in Osteria, whether they believe in The Twelve or not, avoid this portion of the Great Snake River. The northern and southern portions of the Snake are renowned for plentiful and giant fish, and it's said you can have a week's worth of meals by only dipping your pole in the crisp water once. But in this central portion that I look down on, this black water that seeps its way into the depths of Hades's realm, nothing lives. No fish are caught here, no big horn sheep are hunted, and no water weeds are gathered. And it is down to this river of death that I must go to keep Iole and Iolalus alive.

The midday sun burns into my neck sending rivulets of sweat down my back and face. I wipe my brow, and with my eyes shaded by my arm, I notice a sign on a wooden post at the far end of the station. Made of wood that probably cracked ages ago under the blistering eastern Osterian sun, the sign looks as if a light breeze might crumble it to pieces. The letters carved into the face of the sign have been nearly scoured away by sand blowing against the wooden board, but the words _The Styx_ and the direction of the arrow are still discernible upon close inspection. I follow the arrow's direction to a rickety array of wooden stairs that, if they hold, I assume will lead me to the river at the base of the gorge.

With my foot on only the first of what appears to be hundreds of steps, I make the mistake of looking down. The sight sends my head reeling and my legs trembling. With no handrails to cling to, I press myself into the rock wall as I force my other leg to step onto the second plank and then the third. With cautious, jittery steps, I continue downward.

In places, the wooden boards of the stairs have gone missing or are so cracked that I refuse to risk my life any more than I already am by stepping on them. My nerves have me too rattled to risk skipping two or three steps in one lunge. So, fighting the overwhelming urge to run back up and give in, I crouch down to give my tall body a better center of balance, then ease over the supports that boards should hide. All the while, I focus my eyes on the wood at my feet, not on the expanse of air and rock I will plunge into if I slip.

About a third of the way down, a stiff wind hurtles through the constricted space of the gorge. The gusts send the already unstable staircase swaying. There is nothing I can do, but press my hands against the rock wall to grip any handhold I can find as the steps shift under my feet.

By the time I'm about three-quarters of the way to the valley floor, my legs ache from tension, but thankfully the wind has died down and, being closer to the bottom, the view seems less treacherous. Still, I hover close to the rock face and have to remind myself not to hurry.

At the bottom of the stairs, at the foot of the gorge, the afternoon sun sheds no light. My sweat-chilled skin combines with the remnants of tense fear to pulse shivers through my body.

The river, more of a lazy wide creek, flows with black water. The color is no trick of the low light. Even the small waves that lap over the rocks at the Styx's edge aren't translucent, but thick and dark like black blood. As the water recedes from the rocks, it leaves no trace of its darkness, not even a telltale shadow of moisture. I back away and keep my distance as I walk over to a wooden dock to the left of the staircase. A small, flat-bottomed boat is moored there. Despite it not being tied to any post or rail, the boat doesn't drift or shift about, it merely bobs in time with the inky water. The sight of it sends trickles of ice water down my spine.

From tales all Osterian children grow up hearing, I know what I need to do, but this knowledge doesn't prevent me from hesitating. This is death. This boat is the vessel to a world that no mortal leaves. And yet, under the command of my cousin, I am somehow supposed to make my way into this unknown world. And make it back out.

Letting out a deep breath, I step into the boat.

From my waist pouch, I pull out the coin Hera forced into my hand and grip it firmly. My heart pounding in my ears is the only sound I can hear. Every piece of my body screams at me to step off, to go back and fight Eury. If I kill him I will die, be sent under, but at least Iolalus would be rightful heir and Iole would be free. It would be worth the terror of the blood crime vault to know Portaceae had passed to the hands of Iolalus who would rule justly. I know now with a sudden clarity that by continuing with each one of these tasks Eury has devised, I have been avoiding what Portaceae truly needs me to do. It is fear and foolishness on my part—and perhaps a yearning for Iole—that has blinded me from my duty for so long.

I look at the coin in my hand, at Eury's profile stamped into the metal. Frustrated rage courses through my body making my skin burn despite the chilly dankness of the valley. Why should I finish these tasks? Why should I do anything at his bidding when I can simply rid the world of him with one well-aimed arrow or sword tip?

It's time to stop running from my fear of death on these pointless errands. It's time to make Portaceae the polis it should be. I will give my life for Portaceae, but not by fetching Eury another trinket. It is ironic that here on the edge of the land of the dead where I fear to enter that I finally accept I must die to free Portaceae.

Once I've made my decision to abandon the task, to die for my polis and ensure its future, I feel as light as I had when Atlas took the sky off my shoulders. Ready to fly up the stairs, I shift to step out of the boat.

I have no idea if my foot lands in the wrong place or if the boat possesses a desperate desire not to lose a passenger, but something sends the boat rocking. Tilted off my balance, I swing my arms to avoid toppling into the eerie water. In my efforts to remain upright, the coin slips out of my hand. I watch the metal disk fall through space. Everything slows and the coin falls as slowly as a feather until it clinks onto the floor of the boat.

My heart drops as time rushes back in on me. I scramble to pick up the coin, but a long thin foot covered in only the faintest parchment of skin materializes over the coin.

I look up to see a being in a black robe with a cowl that hoods its face. Anywhere else it would simply look like a tall man protecting himself from the elements. On the Styx it drives fear so deep into me I worry my bowels will loosen. This is Charon, the ferryman. His presence means I have paid. I cannot leave the boat. I will be taken to Hades. Trembling, I drop into one of the bench seats that span the width of the boat.

A pole appears in the being's hand and he uses it to push the boat away from the dock. Once in the river's center, Charon punts us along the Styx's course. Wherever the water touches the shore, nothing grows, but beyond the water line, tangles of shrubs mat together in dense thorny brambles. Past this stretch of plant life, the cliffs shoot up to pointed peaks that seem to extend miles into the air.

After what may have only been an hour but feels like the span of an entire day, the boat veers to a side channel of the river. The channel ends in a series of tall basalt columns— _giants' legs_ we call them in Portaceae where they appear in places along the Great Col. The giants' legs form what looks to be a solid wall. As we approach, I can make out an opening that, although it seems small at first, too small for the boat, grows larger as we near it. I can only think that the cliff is opening its jaws to feast on us.

Just as the bow enters the mouth of the cave, the boat halts, jerking the vessel as if an anchor has been tossed and we've reached the end of its tether. I turn to look back at the horrid ferryman. He shrugs his shoulders and turns out his hands showing he doesn't understand what has happened.

"You're not dead," a man's voice says.

I turn back to the cave entrance. Standing on a rock to the side of the opening is a lithe man with dark curls poking out from a shining helmet. No, this is no man. This is a god. At his ankles, wings stretch out and then close like those of a butterfly and another set of wings flutter on his golden helmet.

"Hermes." I bow my head low.

"You're not are you? Dead that is."

I look up to him. His eyes are as black as the water, but unlike the river his eyes dance with life.

"No, I've been sent here to retrieve something."

Hermes rolls his eyes. "Not a recently deceased lover, I hope. Hades is quite stubborn about letting those out. And I am so tired of asking him. He'll only refuse, you know."

"No, I'm here for Cerberus."

"Ah, now there's a handful. Not sure if he'll go for that either, but it's worth a try. Come, brother." I stand in the boat and take his extended hand. His twin sets of wings flap raising both of us up just above the water. "Since you're not dead, you don't want to touch that stuff. It has a nasty habit of killing anything it comes in contact with." Without meaning to, I clench his hand tighter as we glide just inches over the water and through the entrance of the Chasm. The river's channel ends in a small pool that fills most of a cave as cramped as the lower floor of Deianira's house. My nostrils ache from the acrid stench that reminds me of a thousand matches being lit at once.

Once to the stony edge of the pool, Hermes lands. I release my grip on his slim hand and am suddenly aware of my body weight. The heaviness in my limbs gives me an unaccustomed feeling of being slow and awkward as if Atlas's sky is again pressing down on me.

"Cumbersome, isn't it?" Hermes asks. "You'll get used to it. Then, by the time you're out of here you'll feel as if you're floating. If, you know, our uncle lets you out."

I don't want to think of that possibility, but his mention of _uncle_ reminds me of his greeting. Hermes makes his way over the stones to the back of the cave and I follow after him.

"You called me brother. Why?"

"Surely you know," he says with a snip of condescension.

At the back of the cave is an opening. I hesitate. The cave itself is already putting me on edge. It's too small, especially toward the back. Sweat drips from my hands, but my legs freeze refusing to move deeper into the confinement that I fear lays beyond the opening. It's too similar to a cell, to the vigiles' walled cart, to the blood crime vault. Hermes must sense my worry. His helmet glows as if it's catching the sunlight. He takes it off and holds it into the opening.

"See, it gets wider. No need to panic."

I peer in. The entrance leads to a tunnel. A vast tunnel. I'd rather be stepping out onto an open sunny field, but I tell myself I can face this. I nod and we step through. Although the tunnel reeks of sulfur less than the cave did, a persistent heat radiates from the stones and seeps through my sandals. I wonder if the hardened leather will hold up or will it burn away in a sudden flash of combustion. As with Stavros, I want to keep Hermes talking to take my mind away from where I am.

"Surely I know what?" I ask.

"It's not really my place to say is it? But wait, I am the gods' messenger, so I guess it's not wrong to tell you," he says as if he's just come up with the most brilliant notion in all of Osteria.

"Tell me what?"

"You're the son of Zeus."

I stop. Zeus. The god of the gods. The head of The Twelve. My father?

I think of my mother and her reluctance to tell me who sired me. Of Artemis and Hermes calling me brother. It doesn't make sense. Hermes has continued walking and I jog to him before his light is out of view.

"You're joking."

"No, pretty sure I'm not. Zeus bedded your mother—lovely woman, by the way—and made you. Drove Hera to fits of jealousy. She could almost forgive his dalliances but could not abide it when he fell in love with his lovers, much less with their children. He really was quite proud of you and that drove Hera's jealousy in like a sledgehammer. That snake thing, cruel joke on Hera's part, but Zeus bragged to everyone on Olympus about his brave and brawny boy when you killed them. She's had it in for you ever since. She doesn't play fair though, does she? That business with your kids. That went too far."

"My kids? Exactly what did Hera have to do with their deaths?"

"She—I can't believe you don't know."

"Some of it has been hinted at and I have my guesses, but not the full story." My ears hurt from my inability to relax my jaw.

"She set a madness upon you during which you killed them."

My heart plunges to a depth greater than this gorge I find myself in. So it is true. Hera made me kill my family. The bitch. To think I protected her. To think I risked the lives of Iole and Iolalus for her. My body tenses with anger, frustration, hatred. I swear I will get out of the Chasm. I will come out alive and return to Atlas. Only this time he will bring me the entire tree and I will chop it to pieces that I will then scatter to every corner of Osteria. Then, I will grasp her neck and choke her until even her own immortality can't save her.

_Immortality. Could I—_

"If I'm the son of Zeus am I immortal?"

"It depends. Immortality typically comes from the mother's side, but in your case— Ah, here we are."

I want to demand he finish his statement, but the sight before me amazes my tongue into silence. The tunnel has delivered us to a vast cavern. Stalagmites and stalactites grow from floor to ceiling to join at the center. The columns run in rows from the front of the space to the rear like a temple made by the cave itself. Crystals have been set into the stony walls and glow with an orange light that brightens the grotto like a thousand candles.

At the end of the cavern sits a man with a full beard of fiery red and his hair arranged in spikes. He lounges on a throne made of clear and amethyst crystals that jut from the floor. The effect is as if the crystals have grown and shaped themselves to form a regal seat for this god of the underworld. At Hades's feet rests a dog the size of a grizzly bear. Each of its three heads sleeps, but the six ears twitch in unison at the sound of our footfalls. When it opens its eyes they glitter red. The monstrous beast utters a growl, a low rumbling like thunder that sends vibrations through the cavern floor.

"Uncle, I've brought you a guest," Hermes calls cheerily. Hades touches the dog's middle neck. The grumbling ceases.

"Welcome, Hercules Dion."

I bow before moving forward. It takes several paces before I realize Hermes is no longer by my side. I turn back.

"This is as far as I go," he says.

"How do I get out?"

"That's up to him. If he allows it, you'll be able to cross the threshold as if this were any ordinary cave. If not, well, best not to be pessimistic. If he does grant Cerberus to you, the dog will lead you out if you let her. Now, it's time for me to teach some shepherds a trick or two."

I don't have a chance to say goodbye before Hermes disappears into the darkness of the tunnel. I turn and continue my approach moving awkwardly on limbs that feel heavy and cumbersome. When I'm ten paces from the crystal throne I bow low and go to one knee. An overpowering scent of sulfur burns into my nostrils.

"Hades, I've come to ask a favor." He only stares at me with black, angry eyes that reflect the crystals' light like hot embers. I eye the dog. Hades holds it by a leash that glints with a high silver shine. All three of the animal's mouths pull into a snarl. The canines are larger than my fingers. "I need your dog, Cerberus," I state with confidence I no longer feel. Cerberus's ears prick up at the sound of her name.

I wait. Hades stays silent. Eying me. Assessing me.

After a pause so long the dog's middle head has fallen back to sleep, he says, "You can have her." I rise, ready to take the creature and flee this place regardless of its wondrous interior, but Hades bends to the beast, places his hand on the collar, and gives a quick jerk. In a silvery flash, the collar and leash are off. The dog, accustomed to the pressure of the Chasm, leaps to its feet and pads toward me. "If you can subdue her."

The tensing of her muscles gives me just enough warning of Cerberus's attack. I duck down, hitting the stony floor as the dog, aiming for my chest, ends up flying over me. Hades claps. I scramble to my feet—the need to survive, to return to eliminate Eury and Hera from Portaceae takes some of the invisible weight off my limbs. Cerberus slides and spins to face me. We square off, but having no idea which pair of eyes to look into, she is an unnerving opponent. I try to determine which head holds the most control over the body. Impossible to decide as each one of them snarls, dripping drool as they bare their fangs.

Too late I settle on the middle head. The dog is already charging toward me, into me, knocking me to the ground. I tuck my legs up just as the left head makes a snapping bite at my calf. I push myself to all fours. In an instant, Cerberus lunges at me. I drop, roll to the side, and jump to my feet.

Again the beast is on me. Her heads working as one to anticipate my next move. I dart to the right and she instantly changes course back to the left to cut me off. Just as I think I've tricked her by moving to my own left, she swings around. The head nearest me sinks its teeth into my thigh. The other heads, jealous it seems of the treat the middle one has in its jaws, begin snapping at me as well, but their efforts are blocked by the size of their center companion.

"Cerby, play nice," Hades says without conviction.

As if annoyed by the other heads, Cerby's central head lets go of my leg and starts snapping at them instead. Taking the only chance I have, I slip to the great beast's side and leap onto her back.

The heads all begin barking at once. The noise of it fills the cavern. The two side heads twist around to bite me but they can't reach—the thick, muscular neck not quite flexible enough. Cerberus shakes like a dog trying to dry itself, starting with her heads then jerking and twisting the length of her torso. I spread myself on her back, wrapping my arms around the massive neck to hold on. When the first shake passes over her, she begins another. I grip tighter and she gasps. In my effort to hold on, I'm unwittingly choking the beast.

Realizing what I'm doing, I cinch my arms tighter, pinching her tightest where I assume her carotid artery runs. It's a wrestling move only allowed in the most unsavory fighting pits, not the arena, but it's one every wrestler learns at some point in his training. A third shake, stronger than the first two, works over her body. She tries to bark but only a rasping hack comes out. Changing tactics she arcs her body around then drives her side into the nearest column, crushing my leg that now drips with blood from her earlier attack.

The pain from the forceful slam, the throbbing ache from the power of the bite, and the Chasm's weight bearing down on my limbs proves too much. A scream erupts from my throat and my grasp slips. Cerby swings around again for another sideways charge. I reassert my hold, ready myself for the agony, and when the blow comes I hold tighter than before. One head whimpers as another growls. The center head starts to shake. Before the movement has passed her shoulders she slumps to the ground.

I pull out from under her sleeping body. My leg shrieking with agony, I limp over to Hades's throne.

"Subdued, Your Highness."

His brow furrows in anger at first, but slowly a smile creeps over his lips as he begins clapping.

"Good show. She's yours."

I have no idea what to do. As soon as she wakes, she'll be on me again. Possibly reading the quandary on my face, Hades holds up the silver leash and collar.

"When this is on, she's like a puppy. You can do anything with her and she won't turn on you. Without this and, well, you've seen what she'll do. She craves flesh, living flesh, which, as you may guess, is in short supply around here. And she won't stop until she's fed. Unless," he shakes the leash, "this is on. Got it?"

I say I do and take the leash, then work the collar back around the stunned beast's neck. She wakes, looks about groggily, then focuses her glittering eyes on me as she climbs to her feet. The middle head opens its jaw wide and the huge teeth shine as Cerberus stalks toward me. I want to drop the leash but at the same time fear to let it go.

"What trickery is this Hades—?" My question is halted by a large saliva-dripping tongue dragging across my hand. The other heads pant with a happy-dog glint in their eyes.

"No trick. She's yours. If you're done here I'd suggest you go. Cerby isn't the only creature in these caverns that craves the flesh of the living. The dead are starving for life. They've surely caught wind of you by now with that leg wound. Best you be going. Even a leash made from a lightning bolt can't subdue what roams the underworld."

I shudder to think what the dead might do to me and hastily make my farewell. Once out of the cavern and into the tunnel all is dark without Hermes's glowing helmet to light the space. Although I try to imagine the size of the tunnel as being vast, the darkness reminds me of being trapped in the blood crime vault. Panic sets in. My legs tremble and a wave of disorientation washes over me. I turn left then right unsure where to go. I am blind in the darkness. My only sensations are the pain in my leg, the pressure on my frame, and the heat climbing up through my feet. In my confusion, even the light of the cavern seems to have disappeared.

Then I hear it. Heaving but rapid footfalls. It is the dead wakened by the scent of life. I freeze unable to do anything but clench the leash tighter. With the puncture wounds in my legs and the heft of the Chasm's oppressive air, if anything comes for me I know I won't be able to run, let alone fight with any force. I follow the length of the leash, pulling it along like pulling in a boat. I brush my hand along the beast feeling for the heads and then the shoulder. The feel of Cerberus comforts me, but only slightly.

Grunting from what must be a hundred throats somewhere in the darkness kills the miniscule amount of calm I have found.

The sounds grow closer. Cerberus whines.

And then I remember Hermes's words.

Gripping Cerberus's neck in a scruff, I haul myself onto her back. With the leash wrapped around my forearm, I hold onto her with my legs and hands.

Cold hands brush along my injured thigh.

"Get us out of here," I yell. Something grasps at my ankle. "Now, Cerberus. Go." I command and she takes off.

Creatures clutch at me. I can do nothing to fend them off without losing hold of Cerberus. Her heads snap as she runs, but still my flesh crawls with their frigid touches. One gets its fingers into the holes Cerby has made in my thigh and pulls, stripping off a piece of flesh. The pain burns through my thigh as if Prometheus himself has me between his hands, but at least the raw chunk of my leg distracts the dead. The clasping at my body ceases and is replaced by the guttural sounds of the dead fighting for the scrap.

Although it feels like my entire thigh has been ripped away, the chunk of flesh doesn't occupy my pursuers for long. The shuffling sound of the dead and their chilling moans of hunger race up to me, closing the distance in a handful of heartbeats. Their fingers pick at my leg again stealing small chunks like someone picking at a roasted chicken. I fear they will leave nothing but bone.

Then I see it.

Light!

The opening is just ahead. Relief courses through me, until I remember the pool and its morbid water. At Cerberus's pace, she will charge straight into the pool or stumble over the stones and send me hurtling into the deadly liquid. I don't dare slide off. I won't let myself be picked to pieces by cold fingers. But neither do I want to be taken by the water. I don't want that blackness touching my skin any more than I want the dead clambering over me like ants on a honey cake.

I yell for Cerberus to stop but she charges ahead. I can't let go of her. I can't release my grip on the leash or she will devour me. I realize now I will die in the water. With a stoic calm, I accept this. I can only hope it will be a faster death than being torn to pieces as the dead or the dog feed on me.

I close my eyes and prepare for the black water to choke me out as it has done to all the vegetation at its banks and all the creatures under its surface. Cerberus leaps. I think of Iole. I think of my children. I came so close. Who was I to think I could escape the realm of the dead? No mortal does. It's why Eury sent me to this place.

When the hard thump jolts my body, my only thought is of sinking slowly into the depths of blackness. I open my eyes and there it is, blackness swirling around me. Engulfing me. I feel the sensation of being swung around, like a whirlpool is swallowing me. My body is stone heavy, but there is no pain. I let my eyes drift shut again.

As the swirling sensation ceases, all is peaceful.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

### _Eury_

"WHEN WILL MY gift be ready?" Adneta asks as a servant places a portion of roast quail on her plate.

I fidget with my fork, pushing around a pile of creamy risotto made of rice imported at great expense from the Califf Lands. The dish is normally such a treat, but the smell of the garlic that has been liberally added to it makes my eyes water. I've avoided telling Adneta of Herc's trick with the apples. If she knows I've let my one plan, my one grab for power slip through my fingers on a technicality, what will she think of me?

"Soon, my dear. I have it all planned." The servant hovers over me and places a sliver of quail on my plate. I eye him, annoyed by his frugality. It's no secret that any leftovers go straight into the bellies of the kitchen staff. I pay their wages, there is no reason I should give up my own meals to them. I grasp my fork and skewer the entire bird. The carcass drips brown juices onto the white tablecloth before I drop the bird onto my plate. At a flick of my hand, he steps back.

"Do you want to hear?" I ask my wife with a grin. I'm so sure she'll love my idea, I'm giddy. The secret bubbles in me like a pot ready to boil over. Not wanting to talk across the table, I pick up my plate and move to the seat next to her. We never dine like this anymore. Side by side, able to whisper to each other, able to feel the warmth of one another, and able to feed one another tidbits of food. I pluck a piece of meat from the thigh and hold it up to her. She stares at it like I've just snatched the morsel off the stable floor.

"I'm not a bitch who eats out of her master's hands."

I sigh and pop the meat into my mouth but thanks to the scent wafting off the risotto, all I taste is garlic.

"So, what's your plan?" she asks.

I wipe my hands and sit back in the chair. A delighted smile spreads across my face as I imagine how much she is going to enjoy this.

"I have runners on the road. When they bring word that Herc is returning to Portaceae, we'll begin the preparations for your event."

"And if he fails?" She raises her eyebrows and takes a sip of wine.

If he fails, he will be dead and I will celebrate. Indeed, I would bankrupt the polis to celebrate, even if I have to call it a funeral and dress in the maroon robes of mourning. But I—ever positive—am working on the assumption he will succeed. That somehow he will pass into Hades's realm and come out unscathed. Either way, alive or dead, the plan will go forth, only the players and the attire will change.

"My dear," I take her hand. She gives a look of revulsion at the place where my thumb had once been. Ever since I removed the bandages to reveal a puckered scar that reminded me of a toothless mouth, she has avoided touching my right hand and eyes it with wary disgust. I cover the offending sight with my other hand. "He is after something to make you happy. He wouldn't dare fail. Do you know why?"

She doesn't respond.

"Because you are Lady of the Polis from this moment on. The event I have planned will all be for you."

"What does that mean exactly?" she asks, her icy demeanor melting slightly at the hint of an honor.

"You will be the most honored woman in Portaceae. More highly honored than Hera. More revered than the Herenes. This is what I will tell the people and this is why Herc will present you with your gift in the arena."

A satisfied smile breaks over her face.

"You can do that?"

"I'm tired of being told what I can and can't do. I will make my own laws. Hera has little enough to do with this polis and therefore why should she or the Herenes matter any longer? It's simply a case of changing the laws. Soon after the ceremony, my guards will drag the Herenes from their complex and it will belong to me. The Temple of Hera will become the Temple of Solonia Adneta and her statue will be replaced by one of you."

Adneta is leaning forward now, gripping my incomplete hand in hers, a flush of excitement over her cheeks.

"If Herc fails, we will burn an effigy of him and call in a rebirth of Portaceae—a sort of out with the old, in with the new. If he succeeds, he will give you the gift, which I will declare the beginning of the new order." I will also ensure if Herc succeeds that Deianira is there to present her husband with her love potion. "Either way, wear your new belt. It will be a nice touch. See, I've thought of everything."

Adneta releases my hand and slips her fingers into my wine glass. She traces a wine-soaked finger over my lips as she licks her own. I grab her hand and suck on her first two digits as the fingers of her other hand draw circles over my chest.

I look over my shoulder to the servant who stands rigid beside the serving board. "We're done with you," I say. He gives a choppy bow and disappears through a concealed door.

In a flurry of desire, I shove the dishes aside and lift Adneta onto the table. The thrill of the act is marred only by the acrid smell of the risotto that spills across the table in my haste to mount the Lady of the Polis.

## CHAPTER FORTY

### _Orpheus_

THE WOMAN IS enormous. Even sitting at her table in front of her books, she seems a living mountain. My hands shake and my legs refuse to hold still as I fidget in a rickety wooden chair in the offices of the House of Hera.

_They think I've done something wrong. Why else would they have called me here?_

Since Stavros's death, I've applied myself to learning as much as I can about electronics by fiddling with the random pieces of equipment I've collected and littered Mother's house with over the years. I even managed to build a small solar panel that now powers a bubbler in Mother's bird bath. In my excitement over my achievement, I sent an appeal to the Solon to grant me a travel pass to go to Athenos to study with the people who are masters of electricity. Am I now being questioned for that? Dear gods, do they think I'm a spy for Athenos? Or am I in trouble for building the panel? Electricity is under the control of the Council. I know that, of course I know that, but surely a tiny thing to entertain birds can't be illegal. Dear gods, why didn't I listen to Mother and stick to music? How was I to know the dangers of engineering? As I wait, the image of Stavros flying through the air from the control room to the arena floor plays through my head in slow motion.

The chair begins to shake under me as my nerves lose hold of themselves. My eyes flick to the mountainous Herene and freeze when they met her concerned gaze.

"Calm yourself. You're not in trouble," she says and then goes back to recording something in her books.

Her words and demeanor comfort me, but only a little. Surely if I am in trouble, vigiles would be in the room, not just a woman tending to her lists. Although that woman could crush me under her foot with one step.

The door swings open. A man with coppery red hair walks with a slight limp through the door. He is dressed in full vigile uniform complete with a short sword at his hip and a dagger lashed to his calf. I jolt and nearly topple over the chair.

_Oh gods, I am in trouble._

How many more of them are outside? Are there centaurs as well? I knew I'd heard the sound of hooves. I fall out of the chair and drop to my knees.

"Please, I only meant it as a gift for Mother. I'm not a spy."

The vigile looks at me, his face stern, unyielding. My heart chugs in my chest. He reaches out to pull me up by my arms. And then he starts laughing.

"Orpheus Keros, get up, you idiot. Don't you recognize me?"

My head swims. My mind floods with so much fear I don't think I could recognize my own mother. Ever since the Solon tossed Stavros from the control room, I've had a perpetual sensation of falling. It's gotten so bad I had to move my mattress from my bed, only an arm's length high, to the floor and even then I dream of falling. Falling from horseback, falling from the top of stairs, falling from cliffs. Falling.

But the man's hair and his easy manner—

In a flash I'm hit with recognition. From outside, bells are sounding, calling the people to the arena.

"Iolalus. What, what is—I don't understand," I stammer.

"I don't have much time to explain," he says as he steps over to look out the window. "Do you still have access to the control room?"

I nod. My throat has closed too tightly to speak.

_Please gods, don't ask me to go there._

From a desk drawer, he pulls a cassette. I recognize it as one of the cartridges placed inside a camera to record on.

"There's a gathering at the arena. On my signal I need you to play this so the people can see it on the screen."

"No." I shake my head as my voice trembles out the word. "I can't go up there. He'll—"

"He'll be powerless to do anything to you once this is shown," he says in a manner that, while it doesn't completely erase my fear, somehow sends a feeling of ease through me. "This shows our Solon for what he truly is."

_Oh, believe me, I know what the man truly is. He is the one in my nightmares pushing me from the horse, pushing me down the stairs, and pushing me off the cliff._

"He'll kill me," I manage to say through my clenched throat.

"Maxinia and I have arranged for centaurs and vigiles to block Eury once he is on the dais. And there will be more stationed at the steps to the control room." He rests his hand on my shoulder. "He won't even be able to reach you."

"I don't—"

Iolalus steps directly in front of me and places both hands on my shoulders as he looks straight into my eyes.

"Your call brought the vigiles to arrest Herc. Your mother's word as witness made him into Eury's pawn. I'm not sure what caused my cousin to do what he did, but the gods, Athena herself, has said it was not Herc who truly did it. You owe him this. This can free my cousin and remove a corrupt man from power. Will you do this, Orpheus?"

He holds the cassette out to me. I stare at it as the bells toll outside.

"He won't be able to get to the control room?" I ask still staring at the object in Iolalus's hand.

"I will put vigiles of my own choosing outside the door and at the bottom of the stairs."

I look him in the eye.

"And this will rid us of Eury?"

Iolalus nods and a feeling of calm strength I haven't experienced since Stavros's death settles over me.

I give one quick nod and take the cassette.

## CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

### _Herc_

I SWAT AT the thing brushing against my face.

_The dead. _

So this is it, I think with a strange calmness. It wasn't the water I hit, it was the stones beside the pool. And now the dead have swarmed around me to shred my flesh. I swat again trying to fend them off. My hands are tangled in fabric. Dear gods, they've bound my hands.

I open my eyes expecting to see skeletal faces, blank eyes, morbid skin. But I don't. Instead I see my hands wrapped in the gauzy, black robes of the ferryman. Cerberus sprawls beside me panting hot breath onto my arm. My jostled mind can't fathom where the boat has materialized from. Had it waited there all the while or does it appear as needed? I don't care. I'm only glad to be out of the clutches of the dead.

I shake Charon's robes of my skin and jerk away from Cerby's foul breath. The leash has bitten into my flesh leaving my hand numb and my arm ringed in red circles. I loosen the strap from my arm, and blood surges into my hand making it throb and tingle. I shift against the bottom of the boat trying to sit upright, but the movement drives spikes through my leg.

Where the creatures have clawed me, my thigh sports a gaping wound, ragged at the edges and spanning twice the width of my hand. In most places, the flesh has been torn to a depth of three fingers. The sight of the damage turns my stomach, but there is little to do for the bleeding mess until I can get fresh water, safe water, to cleanse it with.

Under the smooth rocking motion of the boat, I drift to sleep but wake with a start when I feel the slimy wet of Cerberus's tongue sliding over my leg. I scramble, checking frantically that the leash is still in my grasp.

"Get off!" I shove her center snout aside and the three heads give me a sad look with their ruby red eyes. I raise my hand to brush the slobber from the wound and see the gash has already grown shallower, the edges more even. I look back to her. With ears cocked, the three heads tilt in curiosity.

"Well, if you must." I point to the wound and she licks at it as the ferryman punts back up river. By the time we dock, the wound has healed with only a faint hint of pink where the dead had gouged their fingers. I pat each of Cerby's heads and, holding the leash with a tight grip, step out of the boat. With her size, Cerby isn't built for grace. Attempting to leap from boat to dock, she totters and slips and lands in a sprawl on the boat's bottom. I ease her upright and hoist her out, then bid farewell to the ferryman, wondering how soon it will be before I see him again. As if saying her own goodbye, Cerby gives three cheerful barks—one from each head.

The climb back up the stairs is not as fearsome as the descent and Cerby seems to know exactly where to step and what planks to avoid. I allow her to take the lead and follow after her. Any step that can support her heft will certainly support mine. Every twenty steps or so, one of the side heads looks back to me and gives a cheerful bark as if checking in on me and glad to see I'm doing well. I will hate giving this strange and fascinating creature over to the hands of Adneta. No doubt within a week she'll be bored with the beast and Cerby will be as dead as the residents of the Chasm.

Once in the train carriage, the enormous dog jumps onto the bench next to me, plops her heads into my lap, and sleeps most of the way from the Chasm to Portaceae. The days on the train drag by with painful slowness. Although I have Cerby to distract me, the few people that dare to look in my seating area quickly duck out when her heads let out a gruff bark. After seeing the fear on people's faces at the station in Demos when I take Cerby out to stretch our legs, I decide to spend the remainder of the journey holed up in my car with her and with my own turmoil.

My thoughts repeatedly run to what I will do when I return to Portaceae. No matter how I try to steer them in another direction, they insist on coming back to ridding the polis of Eury. The tasks, Eury's behavior, and my new knowledge of Hera's treachery have changed my once unshakeable sense of duty to the Solon. My cousin is a pestilence to Portaceae, worse than ravenous caterpillars invading a field of lettuce, and I know I cannot leave him alive if Portaceae is ever to thrive again. It will mean my end as well, but his death will bring new life to Portaceae.

Even before the train pulls into Portaceae City station, I can hear the bells announcing a gathering at the arena. I shift my legs trying to wake Cerberus from her slobbering slumber. She gives a groan of reluctance when I move, but I push her aside so I can stand. My legs send electrical jolts as they waken from the numbness her weight has caused, but there is no sign of the wound from where the dead scoured the flesh from my thigh.

"Come, Cerby." I tug on the leash and she follows me to the door. As the train pulls into the station the first familiar face is that of Iolalus looking proud in full vigile dress. He seems recovered, but as he walks beside the train, I notice a limp as if one leg doesn't want to keep time with the other. It may keep him from active duty for a time, but at least he is alive.

The train squeals to a stop and I step through the carriage door onto the platform. The leash pulls taut and I look back to see Cerby sniffing at the opening and giving a frustrated whine. I step back to the door, press one of Cerby's heads back, and guide another one forward to fit her through the narrow passage. Keeping tight hold of the leash, I hug Iolalus.

"How are you, cousin?"

"A little sore at times, but mostly back to my old self."

"Then I feel sorry for the Herenes."

"They love me. You've heard the bells?"

"Yes, what's going on?"

"Eury's planned some sort of ceremony for you to present a gift to Adneta, but Maxinia and I have come up with other plans. You need to listen to—"

Iolalus is cut off by a group of centaurs rushing forward to shake my hand. They offer congratulations to me and mutter something to Iolalus I can't make out. He nods and they flank us as we make our way through the streets. I have no chance to ask him what is happening as people swarm us on route to the arena. They shy away from Cerby at first, but then become curious as her tongues give them welcoming licks on their hands. More than one bows to us, calls us heroes, says they are behind us. I give a questioning look to Iolalus.

"Your fame has grown since you've been gone. I've made sure of that. Flyers have been appearing in mailboxes telling of what you've done. And what you haven't done. I can explain more—"

Iolalus's words are cut off as Eury's horses barrel past us, nearly crashing into the hoard of people gathered around Cerby. The carriage clatters to a halt at the back of the arena. I crane my neck trying to see if the contraption contains Iole. I need to know she is alive, that she is safe. I need to see her one last time. But the crowd is too thick and blocks my view.

As we near the structure, my stomach clenches with nerves. Apprehension of what I must do seizes me. Everything in me says to run, but I need to complete this. When this dog is in Eury's hands, my tribute will be complete. I will be free. And what will I do with that freedom? Join the coup? Kill Eury on my own? It makes no difference as long as Eury's reign is ended.

"Look Herc," Iolalus says distracting me from my thoughts as we approach the back entrance. The centaurs fall back, lingering at the doorway. "Eury's arranged this little gathering so you can present that creature to Adneta. I've no idea what the point is but I wouldn't trust it."

"He's trying to make her seem the goddess of Portaceae. The hero's great deeds have all been for her."

"Hera will appreciate that I'm sure."

I have no desire to speak of Hera. I have decided my course regarding her. Right now there are more pressing matters occupying my thoughts. On the train ride back from the Chasm, I came up with dozens of scenarios of how to rid Portaceae of Eury and had settled on none of them. But the trumpets blaring to announce Eury's entrance their noise spark a plan.

In the arena, when I present Cerby to Adneta, Eury will be near at hand. I glance to Cerby's leash and let my clenching grip on it loosen. On the dais it will be no problem to drop the leash while handing Cerby over. The dog will have surprise on her side and I'm already familiar with her speed and ferocity. The three heads only need one chance to latch onto Eury and Portaceae will be free of her ruinous Solon. It is treason, it goes against everything I've been trained to do, but yet it will defend the polis. And that is the true job of the vigiles.

Inside the tunnel, I stop and turn to Iolalus.

"Iolalus, I have a plan. It's dangerous but believe me when I say I know you'll make a great—"

"No, Herc, I've already got—"

"Herc, Herc my love," a woman's call drowns out Iolalus's words. Deianira's mound of hair jogs its way through the crowd that has gathered at the rear door. The scrawny body attached to the hair flings itself at me and clings to my arm.

"Deianira," I say plainly. "You've been well." I push her back gently.

"I am now. Oh Herc, you'll come home with me tonight. I'll give you the greatest pleasure. You won't want to leave my bed."

"I'm uncertain if I'll be coming home tonight," I say as I turn to Iolalus. In a deft move similar to that of removing the horses' hobbles, I dip down, snatch the dagger from his boot, and tuck it into my belt.

"Herc, no—" Iolalus calls as I slip through the passageway to the dais. Deianira is close on my heels.

"You will come home," she barks. "This tribute business is done. You will not return to the House of Hera. You will not return to that Iole."

No, I won't. If Cerby fails to kill Eury, I will have to take him myself with the dagger. And I will either be killed on the spot by his guards or sent under for treason. And this is the only thought that gives me pause. Not that I fear dying. I am a vigile. I have been trained to die for my polis if needed. But if I die I will never hold Iole again. I will never have a chance to ask her forgiveness. I will never make love to her.

But even if I live, will any of these things happen?

I peer out to the dais but don't step out onto it. The bright light after being in the tunnel blinds me momentarily, giving me pause, giving me one more chance to reconsider my actions. Before I can form a single thought, Eury steps in front of me, shading me with his body as his foot taps an impatient beat.

"It's about time. Now when I say—"

He details the event he has planned. The words bounce off me as I allow the leash to slacken. The temptation to loose Cerby gnaws at me.

_Drop the leash. No one would know what really happened. _

But the risk is too great. Iolalus stands just behind me, and Deianira blocks any chance of escape. Cerberus could turn and take them or me instead of Eury. As much as I hate it, I have to wait. I need the right opportunity and this is not it.

When Eury finishes, he leaves to take his place to announce us. I turn to Iolalus.

"Stay clear of me and the dog."

His mouth gapes as if about to say something and he places a halting hand on my arm. Before he can get his words out, Eury shouts my name and I head through. The noise of the crowd nearly knocks me over and Cerberus gives a loud bark in response. As the audience gasps, I scan the dais as if sizing up the battlefield.

My assessment only gets as far as the left side of the dais. Two of Eury's guards grip Iole by her upper arms. She meets my eyes and smiles warmly but weakly. Again, I'm flooded with doubt that I can do what I have in mind. I could easily hand over the dog as I am supposed to. I would be free from my tribute and move to Deianira's where I would have to play the part of her husband. I would be alive and I would see Iole each day. Even to love her from afar could sustain me.

But Portaceae deserves better than Eury Stephanos as her Solon. I cannot falter. I mouth, "I love you." Her smile strengthens and my heart swells inside my chest.

The moment is broken when Deianira pushes past me muttering, "Ridiculous." She takes a place on the right side of the dais as if she belongs there just as much as the royal couple, the Solonian Guards, the head priestess of the Herenes, and the commander of the vigiles. Somehow, her confident attitude sends a wariness through me I tell myself to ignore. She is not the threat here.

Iolalus steps forward to stand near Deianira. I wonder if this is part of Eury's stage direction or if Iolalus hopes to mollify Deianira by appearing to take her side, not Iole's. Either way, Deianira gives an upward, prideful thrust of her chin to Iole as Iolalus holds himself at attention.

I step to the center of the dais just behind Adneta and Eury. My hands shake and my stomach feels hollow as Eury begins to speak. When he does, I have to shake my head. Although I had guessed the purpose of this gathering, I can't believe my own ears.

"People of Portaceae, your hero has come to honor the Lady of the Polis as you all should. There will be no Herenes, there will be no Hera. This is a new age for Portaceae. Hera and the Herenes are no longer first in this polis. Solonia Adneta, Lady of the Polis is and as such, you will all do her honor. Herc Dion, present your gift so others may follow suit."

Adneta and Eury step to either side of me. Giving myself time to assess how I will protect Iole when I release the dog, I play along and bow low to Adneta. My eyes fix at her waist, at the braids of gold, at the arrow made of diamonds, at the single ruby at the tip of the arrow. Lyta's golden belt.

Anger fumes through me. I clench the leash so tightly my hand aches. I want to drop the thing, to set the dog on the royal couple. I realize I don't want just Eury dead, but Adneta as well. Her greed has been the cause of so much of Portaceae's demise. It could work. The dog could take one and I could take the other. My hand flutters near the dagger, but I force it back to my side. I know can't control the dog and wield a weapon at the same time.

"Lady of the Polis," I say, "this beast comes from a world no man should enter. She is yours and will be a faithful friend as long as she is kept on this leash."

With a beaming, arrogant smile she holds out her hand for the leash. I relax my grip on it, considering. I have the speed. The dog would be on her in a heartbeat and, with a quick spin, the dagger could slash Eury's throat. The guards are there to defend Iole. But Iolalus, how fast is he with that limp? With the crowds of people, we had been forced to walk slowly here so I have no idea if he can move with any haste. I open my hand ready to let the leash slip through. Iolalus has his sword. He can defend himself.

And then the leash is being taken from me. Adneta, her lips still holding a smile, pinches her eyes with perturbed impatience at me. Once she has the leash in hand, she says, "I'm honored. And as a royal animal, she deserves royal decoration." Adneta unclasps the belt from her waist. "This would be more appropriate for her to wear. After all, I hear it used to belong to a bitch."

She slips the belt from her waist. I can see what is going to happen before she stoops down to do it. I jump back, bump into Eury, then step behind him to be out of Cerby's path.

Adneta holds the belt, ready to place it on Cerberus as a collar. She unclasps the leash.

The moment the leash touches the dais, Cerberus turns from pet to monster. Her middle head, level with Adneta's face snarls and snaps taking the Solonia's head into her jaws and shaking the newly appointed Lady of the Polis back and forth. On the third shake Adneta's neck cracks. Her struggling body goes limp. A scream bellows from the tunnel and then Baruch is running to the dais.

Baruch, his face strained with grief and anger, beats Cerby on the shoulders. One head nips at him and misses. The head that holds Adneta in its jaws drops her lifeless body. Eury staggers back, shouting to his guards to protect him. The heads fix their eyes on Baruch. Cerby lunges, silencing the servant's wailing throat with one bite. Without a pause, Cerby collects her victims. The left head bites into Adneta's calf, while the other two heads snarl their way into Baruch's shoulder and thigh. Satisfied she has hold of her kills, Cerby barrels out of the arena that vibrates with a chorus of screams.

I curse the gods. I curse myself for the fact that Eury still lives. Cerby will be taking her victims to her master, but I have no time to dwell on missing the beast. As I learned to do in my early days of training, I push aside my frustration to focus on what is needed to finish this task I've assigned myself.

I reach for the dagger. Eury's back is to me. It is a cowardly way to attack a man, but with everyone else on the dais frozen in shock, this may be my only chance. Eury, as if jolted with his own electricity, spins around.

"You, you did this. All of you saw this," he shouts at me with his face pulled into a pained grimace. The audience although still in a jumble quiets to hear what he is saying. "You saw him set the beast on your Lady of Portaceae. You saw it."

"No such thing," someone shouts. "She let the leash go."

The crowd begins giving shouts of agreement with the speaker and hurtling insults at Eury. In his distraction, I hover my hand over the dagger. Not wanting the guards to call out a warning or rush in to protect their master, I need to be close enough to strike before removing the blade.

"How dare you?" Eury's voice has taken on a high, frantic pitch. "He has the nerve to take the life of someone precious to me? Fine, I will take what's precious to him."

From behind me I hear Deianira yelp as if it is she Eury speaks of. Eury shouts to his guards, "Kill her."

I'm two paces from Eury. I ease the blade from my boot. The guards hesitate. I move one pace forward, clutching the hilt so it won't slip. I raise the weapon. Eury stomps away widening the gap I've just closed. Iole struggles under the guards' grasp as Eury curses their hesitation. From behind me, Iolalus yells and starts across the dais. Dagger in hand, I force my body forward.

But neither Iolalus nor I are quick enough to imagine how low our cousin will sink. Nor to react in time to stop it.

Eury rips the left guard's dagger from his belt. He holds the dagger up before Iole's panic-widened eyes. Without a thumb to grip it, the dagger looks clumsy in his hand. I'm certain he'll drop it, that it will clatter to the dais and he will be made a fool of. But his four remaining fingers find their strength. In a move swifter than the most skilled butcher, he grasps Iole by the hair and drags the blade across her neck.

My world stops. Iole slumps in the men's arms. Blood coats the front of her cloud white gown, dressing her in the maroon of mourning. Eury wipes the blade on his tunic before handing it back to the guard who drops Iole to put the weapon away.

Like air forced through a tunnel, the world comes back to me in a rush. With Iolalus's dagger in hand I close the distance to my cousin.

"Solon, watch out," Deianira calls. Eury spins and ducks as lithely as a weasel.

"Seize him," he commands as he dances aside.

The guards tackle me, slamming me into the ground. My eyes meet Iole's blank but still beautiful face. I want nothing more than to run to the Chasm to meet her there. And this time I will ask Hades to not allow me to return. Let the dead tear me apart piece by piece. It will be better than being in this world without her.

One guard jerks my left arm back forcing me to release the dagger. The other slides off me as he pins my right arm behind me. As if I'm a sack of dirty tunics, they haul me to my feet.

Eury stares at me with a look that is a mix of glee and hatred. Beside him waits Deianira with a small bottle in her hand.

## CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

### _Hera_

THEY ARE ALL staring at me. Hermes, Aphrodite, Dionysus, and my brother, Poseidon. I've dropped the glass of wine Dionysus just handed me and have sent it clattering across the marble floor of the common area. I couldn't help it. No part of me feels solid, no piece of my flesh feels under my control. Pain tears through my gut and races its way to every scrap of my body.

"My daughter, my child," I mutter.

_No!_

It has to be another of my children. Not Iole. Not my beautiful girl. Ignoring my companions' questioning looks, I turn my vision to Portaceae soaring first over the House hoping to see her in the courtyard tending to the peacocks. She isn't there. Nor is she in my temple. I even direct my vision to Forested Park but see only the big red bull munching on a patch of clover.

"Sister, what is it?" Poseidon asks as he takes hold of my hands. I jerk away. The roughness of his calloused palms grates against my flesh.

"Leave me!" I scream shaking my head and turning away.

"Try the arena," Aphrodite whispers. She drapes one of her long arms around my shoulders. How can she touch me? How can she rest her limbs on me when I feel as if I've turned to mist?

With a lead weight in my chest I view the arena. There she is on the floor of the arena's dais like a girl's ragdoll tossed aside after a day of play. Blood still pulses from a wound in her throat. Like a gale wind slamming into a mountainside, a rush of a vision of Eury slicing the life from my baby girl pummels me. My legs weaken and are unable to support me. I slump. Aphrodite's arm flies to my waist to keep me from dropping to the hard marble flooring.

"Get her to the chaise lounge," Hermes says and I feel myself being shifted then eased onto a plush couch.

"Since when can't Hera hold her drink? Already stumbling after only a sip?"

"Enough, Dionysus," Poseidon snaps. "Something's wrong. Hera, what is it?" He kneels in front of me, but I can't find the words to answer his concern.

Turning my vision back to the arena, I see the bastard. No, I mustn't think of him like that. He's proven himself more than worthy of a better name. He assesses the scene on the dais. A dagger already in his hand he tries for Eury, the true bastard, but Herc's witch of a wife calls a warning and Eury dodges the blade. I curse myself for bringing that woman into Herc's life.

Struggling under the guards' grasp, I watch Herc look at Iole. The love still burns in his eyes for her and my heart aches. How long has it been since I earned a gaze like that from Zeus?

Someone is pressing a glass into my shaking hands. I clasp it in both hands and take a sip. The wine, a recent vintage from Dionysus's polis, should taste of cherries and smoke but no flavor pierces my tongue. I take another swallow before meeting the eyes of my group.

"Iole. She's dead."

Why had I not let her rid my polis of Eury when she had the chance? Damn my hatred of Herc. If I hadn't been so determined to see him fail, Eury would have been ousted. This never would have happened if I'd only controlled my vicious jealousy. Damn me.

Aphrodite, already sitting next to me with her arms around my waist and shoulders, hugs me tighter. Dionysus snaps his fingers and my glass refills. Poseidon, never one to give word to his emotions, storms over the edge of the temple and in an instant a downpour fills the common area with the sound of a raging waterfall.

Hermes face shows nothing but curiosity.

"But she's immortal. She's your daughter."

My mouth feels dry as a blanket and I gulp down half my wine. A snap echoes through the temple and the glass fills again.

"We had a bargain. If she kept her vows, she would remain immortal."

"You're her mother. Don't you know what she has done?" Dionysus asks.

I shake my head. In the motion, tears overflow my eyes and drizzle over my cheeks. I have not allowed myself to pry into Iole's private life. She wanted free of the world of Olympus with its rivalries and lack of privacy and, until Herc Dion, I had no reason to doubt she would stay faithful to her vows.

She loved him and, despite his indiscretion with the Amazonian, he her. But what had their love been? Had she broken her vow? Would she still be one of us?

She'd only been a little girl when she left Olympus. We had argued. Gods be damned I can't even remember what the row had been about. I can only remember her words: "I want to live with the mortals."

I told her she didn't know what that life would entail but she swore she didn't want a life with bickering gods, jealous gods, gods who ignored their spouses.

She wanted a family.

And so we made a pact. She would live her childhood with a mortal family. She would choose her own name. Upon adulthood she would enter the House of Hera and serve me. Already then I decided she would advance quickly. I would not have my daughter serving under a common Herene.

"But," I had cautioned, "should you break your vows as a Herene or leave their service, you will give up the gods' gift. You will cease to be immortal. If you are fool enough to give your body to any man—or any god for that matter—thinking he will love you, you are as foolish as any mortal and will be no better than them. Is that understood?"

"Yes, mother."

"If you are truly setting life on Olympus aside, you must give up your given name. You will take a new name into your new life. What will it be?"

I can still see her now, scrunching up her face, looking up to the sky in thought until she settled on a choice.

"Iole."

It took me years until the new name slid easily off my tongue, and even now I still falter and call her by the name I gave her when she was born.

She was happy with her family—a couple who had been childless. Had I known she would form such an attachment to her rescuer or that she would carry her admiration of him throughout her life I would have ensured he was not there the night of the fire. The family would have died, but she would have been safe, her immortality would have saved her. Now she lies in a pool of her own blood and I have no idea how physical her attachment and admiration became. I have no idea if she will join me on Olympus or be taken in as one of Hades's tenants.

My head swirls and someone eases the glass from me. I drop my face into my hands and a sob heaves through my chest.

As the downpour continues to pound against Olympus, Aphrodite pats my back and says, "We'll know soon enough."

## CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

### _Iolalus_

I'M TOO STUNNED to move. This is madness. Eury has killed a Herene in front of an arena full of people. Yet Herc is the one in custody. Iole knew Eury's secrets and had threatened to take his power. She had every scrap of the law behind her to depose him. But for no reason Maxinia nor I could guess, she had waited too long. And now she is dead. My heart aches at the sight of her lying on the dais with blood staining her perfectly white hair.

_Dear gods, if only she hadn't waited. _

In the stands, the crowd roars with angry threats. The cheeks of men and women are streaked with tears as their faces pull into masks of sorrow. A rush of people from the eastern side of the arena presses forward trying to get to the arena floor, but vigiles order them back. What Eury has done is more than enough to incite the coup we have planned, but not here, not at this moment. With so many confused, distraught, and angry people it would be a deadly mayhem.

This is not how it was supposed to happen. Damn you, Herc, if you had only listened. I bide my time waiting for the chance to roll my plan into action. Waiting for things to calm so Eury can be arrested without anyone else getting hurt.

After several moments, the vigiles have the crowd under control. Eury passes an arrogant, defiant look over his people as if they have quieted just for him.

"Deianira, come forward to your husband," Eury says. She strides over, her bony hips doing their best to sway sexily, but the attempt only makes her walk like a drunkard. Herc glares at her and rightly so. Her warning has put him in custody. Her words have kept him from doing away with Iole's murderer. Her alert could mean her husband's death sentence.

Deianira performs a low curtsey to Eury then stands in front of Herc. Her hands clutch a small vial to her chest like a child holding a treasure she doesn't want to lose.

"I believe you have something for your husband?"

"I do. A love potion." She strokes Herc's arm but he jerks away, his eyes wide with fear. I don't know what sort of deception this is but I know that no potion unless given straight from the gods could ever make Herc love this woman.

"Then give it to him and he will be yours."

Herc is already pulling his head back as Deianira pops the cork from the vial. She raises it to his lips but he pinches them shut.

"Take it husband and you will forget her. There is no use loving her now." She speaks kindly, pleading with him.

"Poison," he says.

"No. Love."

Herc watches her face, his eyes flick to the body of Iole. The pool of blood has stopped growing. He returns his gaze to his wife with a look of resignation. A familiar smell drifts to me. Something about it, something I can't quite place jolts my gut.

"Do it then," Herc says.

She raises the bottle to his lips and tips it.

The scent. Like rotted cherries. A vision of riding the writhing water serpent blasts through my head.

"Herc, no!"

But my warning is too late. Lerna's blood is already in his mouth. It can't be more than a sip. With a disgusted expression, he tightens his lips again before she can stop pouring. Some of the potion dribbles a black stream down his chin.

"Poison," I yell. "She's poisoning him."

Herc gasps. He can't breathe. Deianira, truly confused, flings the bottle from her hands as if suddenly realizing she's holding a viper. The bottle shatters against the blade of my dagger that the guards forced from Herc's hand. A waft of foul fruit from the tiny pools spattering the dais fills my nose until I can almost taste the poison myself.

Herc's massive hands claw at his neck. Blood sprouts from under his nails. His eyes find me and I can only imagine the horror, the distress he sees there. I run to him, trying to support him as his legs give way. Clutching onto me, his mouth is at my ear as he forces one hoarse word out of his constricting throat: "Lead."

As his head slumps, he directs his final gaze at Iole before collapsing into a heap beside her. The guards seize Deianira and Eury struts about the dais as if he has just defeated the Areans single-handedly.

Iole's murder, Herc's attack on Eury, and Deianira's betrayal have completely knocked my plan off course. Orpheus was to play the video, I was to denounce Eury, the vigiles stationed just off the dais were to arrest Eury, and Herc was to become Solon. But Herc is dead. Iole is dead. More than ever the people of Portaceae need to learn what their leader truly is. I look to the control box. Orpheus stands at the window. I wave my signal. The motion sends a piercing pain through my shoulder, but Orpheus gives me a thumbs up and the screen flickers to life.

The screen shows half of Eury's head and his upper back. He faces Iole who is speaking.

"You've still yet to post the funds you promised into the treasury. And yet—" Her voice rises. "And yet, your household expenditures appear to show an increase."

She slides a piece of paper over to him that he quickly glances over.

"Those are private numbers."

"You are the Solon. You serve the people of Portaceae. Your numbers are their numbers."

"If the money is gone, what can you do?"

"The law says many things can be done. The Herenes have not employed them in the past because we foolishly believed your never-ending promises, but it is getting to a breaking point—"

As Iole continues I keep my eye on Eury. He stands frozen, shocked by what he is seeing on the screen, but I know it won't last. Glancing quickly to the Herene's box, I catch sight of Maxinia and give a small nod. She disappears from view. She will be hurrying down the stairs now to get the centaurs in place to prevent Eury's escape.

On the screen, Iole is dealing her blow.

"Eury, I've called you here today with this man as witness to charge you with neglect of the polis."

On the screen and on the dais, Eury does not respond.

"You do know what the law of neglect is, don't you?" Iole asks after a pause.

In a burst, the on-screen Eury bolts from the chair.

"You dare threaten me?" He pounds his fist onto the desk and on the screen I move into the shot ready to protect Iole.

"It's not a threat. You have a choice to fund this polis with the money and forces it needs to build, maintain, and protect itself or I will seek your replacement."

"I'll see you dead before you do any such thing. And you won't die a virgin."

At his cue, Orpheus shuts off the screen and I step forward, angling myself to keep Eury in my sight.

"People of Portaceae, your leader has swindled you."

My eyes dart between the audience and Eury. Realization has finally settled in and he now looks more like an angry bull than Frederic could ever dream of. I need to speak quickly and get the vigiles out here before mine is the next body on the dais. The scrawny Deianira certainly doesn't need two guards on her and no doubt Eury will soon have one or both of them on me. Thankfully, they are too dumb to act unless Eury tells them what to do.

"Everything Herc Dion did was for Portaceae." Eury steps back. Is he going to flee? "But this man," I point to Eury who stops, "took every drachar from every gift and kept it for himself." Eury's eyes fill with malice. "Iole knew this. She was about to depose him. That is why she is dead."

Eury charges. From the corner of my eye I can see vigiles rushing from the stands toward the dais. My position at the edge of the platform is a stupid one especially with my bad leg. With Herc and Iole's body in front of me and Deianira's guards to my side, I've left myself nowhere to go but a dangerous drop to the arena floor. Still, a broken leg will be better than death at Eury's hand.

I'm about to leap. I take in a deep breath and steel myself for the pain. In my pause I see Eury grope for my fallen dagger on the dais. His struggle to grasp the weapon distracts me from escape.

_His hand. What in the gods' names happened to it? _

It was no secret that Eury had lost a thumb. Some rumors said one of his servants had finally had enough and chopped it off, others say Adneta had bit it off mistaking the stubby digit for his manhood, and still others insisted he paid the blood price to the Oracle with his own blood. But regardless of how he had lost it, the wound had closed and completely healed over. When he had clutched the dagger to Iole's throat, I couldn't take my eyes off his hand. I had expected him to lose hold of the knife. But he held tight to the hilt with a four-fingered hand that had only skin resembling a puckered, toothless mouth where a thumb should be.

But now, that puckered mouth is no longer pinched tight. As if stuck in a scream, the mouth gapes open exposing blood, bone, and bandy tendons. Eury seems not to notice. He still tries to grip the dagger in his right hand. With no thumb and with anger blotting out reason, Eury fumbles with the weapon. It clatters to the dais. He lunges to retrieve it.

I move a step away from the edge of the dais. With the limp, my movements are awkward, but I hope to move slowly enough to stay out of his notice as he focuses on the dagger.

In his haste to reclaim the weapon, Eury slips in the blood that has flowed from Iole's neck and lands hard on his hands and knees. In a heartbeat, he scrambles for the dagger, clutches it in his complete hand and jumps to his feet.

From the tunnel behind the dais comes the _clip-clop_ tattoo of centaurs' hooves. Eury makes a sweeping lunge at me. I arc my body away from the blade that narrowly misses my abdomen. The motion unbalances me and I swing my arms to steady myself. I curse as pain rips through my shoulders. Eury lifts the dagger, holding it ready to stab. I wish I could run. Without the injuries to my joints I could have easily darted to the side and been out of his reach. Instead, I take one limping step back, back to the edge of the dais. I glance over my shoulder to the arena floor. Several vigiles stand ready to catch me.

For the second time, I prepare to jump.

For the second time, I'm distracted by my opponent.

A gurgling gasp rumbles from the Solon's throat. Despite the ache it causes my knees, I crouch warily, ready to lunge at Eury if necessary. His eyes have sprung open wide. The dagger drops to the dais with a clang as my cousin clutches at his throat. His hands are decorated in streaks of black blood. The deadly paint coats most heavily across the wound where his thumb belongs. Seeing where my eyes have landed, Eury, choking out frantic whines, scrubs the wound against his tunic. But the hydra's blood is already in him, the tiny drops of Lerna's life have found their way into the gaping mouth on his hand. The audience chants for his death. The Solon's face changes from red to purple, then rapidly drains of all color as he collapses before me. His crown of false jewels slips from his head.

The crowd cheers, roaring loud enough to rattle the dais. And then they begin shouting my name, calling me leader. Maxinia appears on the dais, her face a mix of sorrow and beaming pride. The vigiles who were to arrest Eury, escort the Solonian Guards from the dais and dismiss Deianira who clearly didn't know what her vial contained. A crowd of vigiles below the dais hails me as commander and Solon.

I cannot celebrate with them. I kneel beside Herc and Iole, stroking their heads that rest so near each other. I want Herc to be alive to take his role as leader. I want Iole to be his advisor and my friend. I don't want what now rests on my injured shoulders. I touch the charms at my chest. The simple act stills my thoughts.

Eury's treachery has left me, as Nikos's only surviving descendant, the Solon of Portaceae. It is up to me to restore the polis to greatness, to defeat the Areans, to rebuild the city, and to reform alliances that have withered under Eury's watch. I have no idea how I will do it, especially not alone, but whatever I do will be honest and just, and that is more than Portaceae received from her last Solon.

I stand, my knees protest the movement. I do not take the crown, let Eury be buried with his gaudy decoration. Ornaments do not make a man a leader. With my face wet with tears I face the crowd that has fallen into silence. My voice shakes with such emotion I'm uncertain if I can give volume to my words, but when I say them, the audience cheers and hope fills their faces.

"Hera protect Portaceae."

The audience's praises suddenly change to a collective gasp. My first thought is I have already done something wrong. From behind me, Maxinia cries out. I turn.

The bodies of Herc and Iole are gone.

## CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

### _Herc_

_I'M DROWNING._

_I can't breathe._

_I'm drowning._

Although I feel myself climbing, clawing my way upward, my limbs refuse to move. Out of the pressure that is drowning me inch by inch grows a sensation of moving without making any progress. The pressure neither increases nor decreases; it just pushes upon me as if I'm lingering underwater. My lungs ache for air. My limbs hang immobile, but some inner sense tells me I'm moving.

At the point I think I can't stand it anymore, when I decide to just open my mouth, breathe in whatever engulfs me in the hope that I can extract air from it, the pressure disappears. I gasp with my mouth fully open to take in as much air as possible in one gulp. The sound is horrible—a deep, rasping, gurgling inhale. Once, twice I heave in and my body is relieved of pressure. Three times and my limbs move again. On the fourth, my breath steadies and I open my eyes.

I expect to see the arena. Or the jail. Or even the walls of the blood crime vault. Instead I see sky, clouds, columns. I'm on a floor that is too hard, too smooth, too cold to be anything but marble. Sitting up I realize no walls pen me in, only columns. Beyond their pale legs I can see whatever structure I'm in perches on a mountaintop looking over a valley. In the distance, islands dot grey blue water.

"It's a lovely view, isn't it?" A woman's voice. I turn around. Although she's beautiful, I hate her.

"You," I spit the word like a curse as I push myself up so I can stand and face her.

"Yes, me. You've learned about me then? Hermes always delivers his messages." She pauses as if chewing on a thought. "I'm sorry. I misjudged you."

"Sorry? That's it? You ruined my life. You killed my children. For nothing more than spite, you took from me my destiny to lead Portaceae and stuck that greedy, pompous, whore-loving cousin of mine in my place. I don't doubt you even had him kill Iole just to watch me suffer one more time before I died." A vengeful thrill pulses through me when I see this last sentence makes her flinch. "Sorry does not cut it."

"No." She moves about the, the what? _Temple_ is the first word that comes to mind, but the cushioned couches and chairs are not furnishings normally found in temples. As Hera paces the area, a trail of misty cloud follows her. "No, you're right, it doesn't. I'm a foolish, jealous woman. I hated you for being Zeus's favorite, for the gift he gave you. A gift he had no right to give a child of any mortal. But I've seen how you've conducted yourself, how you've stood up for what you love, how you protected me even when you had no need to. And for that I bow to you, begging your forgiveness, or at least not your hatred."

And she does. Hera, the most prideful of goddesses, lowers to her knees before me, bowing her head. It is a sight no one, mortal or god, would believe. It doesn't erase the feelings I have for her, but it does soften them.

"I shall try to forgive you," I say. "That's all you can ask of me. Please, stand." She rises and stands facing me. I cannot look into her eyes. They are Iole's same green and gold. It hurts too much to see those eyes in another face when I will never see Iole again. I turn from her to pace the length of the temple. "This gift you mention. I don't understand."

"When you were conceived, Zeus gave you the gift of the gods. I insisted you should meet two requirements to receive it. One, that you honor the gods in all things. Second, that you make an immortal love you, and that you love her back. You have met these requirements. No," she corrects herself, "you have exceeded both of them."

"What are you saying?" I ask warily.

"You are immortal Hercules, son of Zeus."

The drowning feeling floods over me again. I stagger back into a trio of stone steps, plunking down hard on them.

"I don't understand. Why? How?"

"Zeus loved your mother." From the tensing of her jaw muscles, it's clear she is making an effort to hide the bitterness in her voice. "Not just sexually but with his whole heart. He wanted to give her child something only the gods should have."

My head races. I'm not dead, but neither am I alive. A spinning sensation slaps me and I drop my head between my knees to ease it. As the whirlwind slows, I realize I don't want this. There's no point in living forever. All through the trials I have accepted my inevitable death. Although I forced it to the back of mind, I knew Eury would not let me live. I had accepted that fate and then I had embraced it when Iole's life was taken, ripped away from her by my cousin. Without my children, without a life with Iole, what would be the point of having eternity?

"I don't want this," I say.

"Then I have a proposition for you," she says in a tone that carries no surprise. Clearly, she had been expecting my refusal. "Because I took what should have been yours, I'm offering it back."

I perk up. Hera took my children. Though it was my hands that killed them, it was she that put the madness on me to do the deed. My heart lightens, my head steadies. Can she mean my children?

"Eury is dead by the same poison that claimed you. You are rightful ruler of Portaceae. You can give up your immortality and return to claim your title, or you may stay here amongst your brothers and sisters and father."

My heart sinks. Her offer is not the return of my children. Of course it isn't. Why should I have thought this cruel goddess would grant me anything I truly wanted? I consider what it would mean to return. If Eury has died, Iolalus is now rightful Solon. Like Minos, he is a natural leader and the people will love him. If I accept Hera's offer, I would take from Iolalus what he has just won and he would not grudge me for it. But would I be a better leader? I would return to Portaceae City. I would see the House of Hera every day. I would grieve for my loss. Would the grief change me as jealousy had changed Hera?

On Mount Olympus—for I now know where I am—Hera is right, I will have a family, but I will spend an eternity without Iole or my babies. Either way, my life will be a misery, incomplete. The idea makes me want to fling myself off the mountain.

I stand and face Hera.

"I want neither. I want to descend to the Chasm to find Iole and my children. Let me be there. I want neither mortal nor immortal life without them."

And then, more shocking than her kneeling to me, a tear spills over Hera's cheek. She clasps her hand to her mouth to hold back a sob. I'm unsure what I have done. Any other woman, I would reach out to comfort, but not her. Not this cruel goddess. I can think of nothing to do but wait for her to collect herself.

In a few moments she does, but her voice still trembles and her hand flutters at her chest as if to ward off further emotion. She then clutches my hand and bows to kiss it.

"You truly are deserving of anything Zeus bestowed on you. Hebe, he is yours."

I don't understand her words. Who is Hebe? A servant of Hades? My body tenses and an ache pulses through my thigh where the dead had plunged their fingers. The memory sends a wave of fear through me. I want to run, but to where? And why? If Hades's creatures are coming for me, it's what I have asked for. I take a deep breath and stand my ground ready to face whatever horror is being sent for me.

The mist that trails Hera takes on a shape, a solidity it hasn't had before. I'm fascinated, but also fearful of the monster it will become. Will it be one of the dead? An unleashed Cerberus? Hades himself?

But it's not a monstrosity that the mist reveals. It is a beauty that I cannot pull my eyes from. She launches herself toward me and clutches her arms around my neck. Her kiss is long, deep, and mixed with tears as I stroke the silk of her white hair.

"Iole, but—"

"Did you forget that I'm Hera's daughter?"

"Then you're—"

Her face glows with joy and her green and gold eyes sparkle as she nods at my words. "Immortal. Like you."

I hold her tightly, kissing her, wanting her, loving her. Appearing from behind the columns, the gods of Olympus bow their heads to us and look on with smiles. Only Zeus, my father, is missing from the scene.

"As a gift of my own," Hera says. The trail of mist is again a formless shape behind her. "I have made a rare deal with my brother."

She sweeps her hand back and from the trail of cloud appear three figures. Three small figures. Familiar figures that even before they fully form send a pang through my heart. A sob chokes my throat. I drop to my knees as I whisk my children into my arms. Cassie, cradled in Sofia's arms, wails at the sudden motion, but Sergio and Sofia giggle as my fingers tickle their ribs.

"But I thought you couldn't," Iole says to her mother.

"You are my daughter and son-in-law, I'm allowed to indulge you a bit. Besides, Hades got three full-grown dead in exchange for three tiny ones. He was more than pleased at the trade."

"And you," I say with more accusation in my voice than I intend. Iole squeezes my hand trying to hush me, but I continue. "Will you now protect Portaceae as you are supposed to do or will you leave Iolalus to battle the Areans with only a handful of vigiles?"

Hera's eyes flare, but soften just as quickly. She gives the briefest nod of submission. "You are right. It's time I take charge of my polis. I will help restore the land to rebuild the polis's wealth and productivity. It will take time, but I will not let emotions sway me again from my duties."

"And the Areans?" I demand.

"You underestimate your cousin's leadership skills. He had a strong plan already in play before you reached the Chasm—a hospital bed allows plenty of time for planning. Before you ever stepped foot off the train in the east, Iolalus made Odysseus his second-in-command and ordered that each of Portaceae's vigiles rally no less than ten vigiles from other poli. The combined forces are the largest numbers Osteria has ever seen. Odysseus has organized them and two armies are on the move to Augea and Nemea as we speak. Word has it that the Areans are already breaking camp; there may not even be a battle. Does that satisfy you?"

Iolalus is Solon and may soon rule a peaceful Portaceae. Cassie coos in Iole's arms as Sofia sits on my shoulders and Sergio stands by my side in his best imitation of a vigile's stance. I cannot imagine being more satisfied.

Good," says Hera reading the smile that has taken over my face. "Now, shall we go welcome your cousin to his new position? Oh, and Maxinia to hers," Hera says to Iole. "The peacocks will be selecting her as the new head priestess."

## CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

### _Epilogue - Hades_

"WELCOME TO THE Chasm." No one ever truly feels welcome when they come to my realm, but it never hurts to be a good host.

"Eury, Adneta, is it?" I check my list. I know perfectly well who they are, but my sister promised I'd be receiving three new residents to replace the three little ones she'd asked for. Normally, I have a strict no return policy, but one must make exceptions for family.

So where is the third? Although Hera has her faults, she always sticks to her deals.

"Sorry, Uncle," Hermes says fluttering his way to me. With him is a tall man with a regal air about him.

"Ah, my third."

"I would have gotten them all to you at once, but this one," he indicates the tall man, "refused to get in the boat with that one." He points to Eury who is trying to slide his arm around Adneta's waist. She crosses her arms and pulls away from her husband. With a spoiled pout on her face, she slinks over to Baruch. The tall man bends down and gives her a deep passionate kiss. I look on the scene with a smile. Always so good when lovers arrive together. It becomes so messy when they get separated. Still, this promises to be interesting.

"Adneta," Eury cries. He reaches for her arm to pull her away, but she won't budge. "Get away from him. What in the world—?"

"We'll take a private room. Preferably far from him," she says thrusting her chin toward Eury as she cuddles into Baruch's arms.

"But darling, you love me," Eury whines.

She gives a sharp, derisive laugh.

"What exactly is there to love? Certainly not your skills in bed. I needed Baruch for that. Yes, close your jaw. Baruch, you blind idiot. I wanted you for your gifts, for power, for the prestige of being the Solonia. I knew you would give me anything I wanted, but what can you give me here?" She casts a judgmental glance around my cavern that I think a bit rude after all the work I've put into the place. "Pieces of rock?"

"You bitch. Is that really all I was to you? A gift giver?"

"I'm a whore, darling. Did you expect more? I gave you what you wanted so long as you gave me what I wanted."

Oh, this is a good show. Certainly worth giving up three rather boring children who did nothing but cry for their daddy.

"And what could he give you? He's a servant for gods' sake."

Adneta looks up into Baruch's eyes with idolizing admiration. He strokes her cheek with his long, elegant fingers. She turns back to Eury. The warmth in her face freezes to ice when she glares at him. "You'd be amazed at what he can give me. Over and over he can give it to me. Since you can't hold up your end of our deal in here there's no point in our staying together."

"Fine," Eury says. His expression is a mix of pain and anger as if each emotion is battling for supremacy over his facial muscles. "Go be with him, you whore."

This is my cue. Gods, such fun. I really will have to thank Hera for the entertainment. I clear my throat.

"The underworld is not a roadside inn," I say indignantly. "Do you not know how this works? You two promised yourselves to one another forever and that's what you'll get—an eternity together."

Cerby's heads pant and drool as both Adneta and Eury cross their arms over their chests and turn away from one another like spoiled children.

"However," I say. Adneta spins back to face me, her eyes bright with hope. "There are rules down here. You three came together. That means, you must stay together. The room will be a bit cramped, but I'm sure you'll work things out."

Complaints erupt from three mouths, fingers point, heads shake in adamant refusal. The cavern echoes with their bickering. They'll get over it. Soon they'll be so consumed by hunger for the flesh of the living they'll forget why they ever quarreled. Still, this tirade is irksome. I tap Cerby on her neck and, in unison, her heads let out a roaring bark. The noise silences them.

"Now, if you don't mind, your room is this way."

Ignoring their grumbles and pouty glares, I lead the trio into the deepest realms of the Chasm.

**_Ready for more?_**

How will Maxinia settle into her new role as head priestess? What trouble could Odysseus's armies be heading toward? Have we really seen the last of Eury?

Find out and continue the adventure today with **_The Voyage of Heroes: Book Two of the Osteria Chronicles_**.
_Hercules in Mythology_

Although I tried to be true to the legend of Hercules, the labors in _The Trials of Hercules_ differ slightly in their outcomes and details than in the original ancient myths. In addition, in mythology there were twelve labors compared to eleven in this book. When it came to writing the final draft of this book, the Cattle of Geryon became an awkward fit with the plot line toward the end of the story, so I removed it.

The following are the original twelve labors of Hercules:

  1. The Nemean Lion
  2. The Lernean Hydra
  3. The Stag of Artemis
  4. The Erymanthian Boar
  5. The Augean Stables
  6. The Stymphalian Birds
  7. The Cretan Bull
  8. The Mares of Diomedes
  9. The Belt of Hippolyta
  10. The Cattle of Geryon
  11. The Apples of the Hesperides
  12. Cerberus

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_About the Author_

Tammie Painter worked for years in science before discovering her true passion in writing. Her fascination for myths, history, and how they interweave inspired the Osteria Chronicles series. When she isn't (but probably should be) writing, Tammie can be found gardening, planning her next travel adventure, or wrangling her hive of honeybees.

Learn more about Tammie at

_TammiePainter.com_

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**Other Books by Tammie Painter**

**_The Trials of Hercules: Book One of the Osteria Chronicles_**

**In a world where mortals contend with the gods' vengeful jealousy, one man must ask himself if he will risk his life to defend the goddess who has done everything to destroy him.**

Convicted of three heinous murders, Herc Dion is sentenced to a series of trials that will pit him against formidable monsters, push his physical and mental endurance to the limit, and deliver him to the edge of Hades.

Throughout these ordeals, Herc endures the brutal cruelty of Hera whose hatred of Herc has blinded her to the near ruin of her realm and to plans that will spell the end of her existence. Realizing Hera has ruined his life, will Herc risk his own life to protect her?

* * *

**_The Voyage of Heroes: Book Two of the Osteria Chronicles_**

**In a dangerous game that pits god against god, and family against one another, trust is the deadliest weapon.**

Believing a well-guarded treasure will prove he is rightful leader, Jason, Prince of Illamos Valley, sets out on a perilous quest to obtain it. As his voyage takes him across treacherous waters and into an aggressively fortified kingdom, Jason finds himself combatting the ire of gods and monsters, struggling to control a rebellious crew, and battling against doubts of his own worthiness to be king of the land he is fighting to save.

But even if he gains the treasure, can Jason recapture the trust of his people, secure his throne, and survive the betrayal of the one person he never expected to turn against him?

* * *

**_The Maze of Minos: Book Three of the Osteria Chronicles_**

**With the gods as your allies, your life, your world, and your sanity have never been in more danger.**

_The Maze of Minos_ is an exhilarating tale of deception and determination, hostile ambition and daring heroism.

Soon after returning to Athenos to celebrate his father's recent marriage, Theseus learns his homeland must submit to the cruel demands of an unexpected enemy. Goaded by his father's new wife, Theseus volunteers to defend his land by entering a battle to the death in the pitch black depths of an ancient maze. A battle against a monster of the gods' creation. A battle no other has survived.

Aided by the goddess Aphrodite, Theseus stands a stronger chance of triumph than his predecessors, but as ever, the gods' kindness harbors ulterior motives. His bravery, his sacrifice, his struggle to push his world back from the brink of war only serves to further Aphrodite's goals. Goals that will destroy the stability of Osteria and anyone who stands in her way.

* * *

**_The Bonds of Osteria: Book Four of the Osteria Chronicles_**

**In a fierce clash for power, titans rise, heroes fall, and the gods find themselves on the brink of destruction** _._

The titans gather. The gods plot against one another. And the mortals of Osteria become locked in a battle against nature, monsters, and one other.

When internal and external struggles push them too far, former heroes prove themselves unable to protect Osteria, and new heroes are forged as the bonds of family, friendship, and marriage are challenged at every turn. But will their valor be enough in a world where even love can lead to war amidst the gods' battle for supremacy?

* * *

**_The Battle of Ares: Book Five of the Osteria Chronicles_**

**The war that could destroy Osteria has begun. And it's not just the mortals whose lives are at risk.**

_The Battle of Ares_ sees Osteria at its most vulnerable. It's a time of life-shattering power struggles, shifting alliances, and characters going against their nature to protect their realm and those they love.

Tricked into starting a war with Demos by his power-hungry brother, Menelaus leads the Osterian forces to exact vengeance on the man he believes has wronged him.

With its capital in the hands of invaders, the polis of Demos now faces enemies on two fronts: the vicious warriors of Aryana and the Osterians who should be Demos's allies.

Although the Osterians start off strong, clashing personalities within the Osterian camp soon crush any hope for a short battle and trust in their leaders erodes to nothing.

Meanwhile, the gods on Olympus refuse to heed dire warnings that the titans are inching ever closer to obliterating them. And the moment the gods cease to exist, the mortals of Osteria will soon follow.

For mortal and immortal lives to survive this threat, the gods must set aside their arrogance, their stubbornness, and their differences. A challenge they have never successfully met before.

* * *

**_The Return of Odysseus: Book Six of the Osteria Chronicles_**

**The war may be over, but the fight for Osteria's future has only just begun.**

With the immortality of the gods resting in the hands of the titans, all of Osteria is at risk of annihilation. As their powers fail and their allies fall, the gods must put their trust in the unlikeliest of heroes in the unlikeliest of places.

As the weakened gods limp their way toward a final battle against the titans, one man simply wants to return home from the war in Demos. But getting home may just be the toughest challenge Odysseus has ever endured.

Captured by a vengeful foe who makes the brutality of war seem like child's play, Odysseus faces torture, indignity, and despair. His only hope proves to be a cunning sorceress, but even she has tricks that keep Odysseus's goals impossibly out of reach.

With Odysseus's world about to fall apart, with Osteria teetering on the edge of ruin, and with titans on the verge of supremacy, can the gods band together and intervene before it's too late?

For both gods and mortals, it's a race against time for survival, for love, and for Osteria in this emotionally-charged final installment of the Osteria Chronicles.

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**_Domna, A Novel of Osteria: The Complete Set_**

**_Destiny isn't given by the gods, it's made by defying them._**

If you like the political intrigue, adventure, and love triangles of historical fiction by Philippa Gregory and Bernard Cornwell, and the mythological world-building of fantasy fiction by Madeline Miller and Simon Scarrow, you'll love _Domna_ 's epic tale of passion, ambition, and betrayal **.**

_Domna: The Complete Series_ includes all six parts of the serialized novel in one volume.

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**_Domna, Part One: The Sun God's Daughter_**

**_As a realm teeters on the verge of rebellion anything is possible, except one woman's freedom to choose her fate._**

Sofia Domna has her future planned. She will follow in her father's footsteps and lead the Temple of Apollo. She'll marry her childhood love, Papinias. She'll have respect, status, and power.

So when her father bitterly forces her betrothal to a stranger and orders her from the life she's always known, Sofia is thrown into a new world where any wrong move could mean her demise.

Refusing to give up her home, her future, and her love, Sofia immediately plans her escape, but she soon learns exactly how cruel destiny and the people surrounding her new husband can be.

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**_Domna, Part Two: The Solon's Son_**

**_When your destiny has been stolen, it's up to you to make a new one. But first you have to survive the marriage you've been forced into._**

Having been warned by her guard, Macrinus, that her life depends on being faithful to her new husband, Sofia Domna enters the grand city-state of Vancuse to begin her arranged marriage to Sirius Verus. But when she discovers her former lover serves in her new household, Sofia's resolve is tested at every turn.

When she becomes pregnant, Sofia's fidelity is immediately questioned even as Sirius's secrets unravel. Secrets that will turn Sofia's world on its head.

With a backdrop of political and marital instability, and Sirius's once-great status quickly on the decline, can Sofia withstand threats, shame, and temptation to guide her husband to the highest role in the realm?

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**_Domna, Part Three: The Centaur's Gamble_**

**_In a world mired in chaos one wrong word could mean death, but one promise could mean greatness._**

After barely surviving his previous appointment, Sirius claims being forgotten may be the safest place in the violent turbulence of Osterian politics. But Sofia's ambitions remain steadfast and she refuses to accept the gods have destined her to waste away in obscurity.

Just as Sirius settles into the peace of a rural life, an old friend offers him the chance to inherit the title of Solon if he's willing to fight for it. Will Sirius take the chance, or will he opt to stay safe? More importantly, will Sofia let him have a choice in the matter?

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**_Domna, Part Four: The Regent's Edict_**

**_A fight for power. A battle for loyalty. A plot that could cause it all to crumble._**

Although he's won the solonship, Sirius soon discovers others are poised to viciously claim the title as their own.

Catapulted into a world of danger and temptation, Sofia discovers her only chance of survival is to stay one step ahead of her enemies.

But in Osteria, new perils lurk around every corner and plots don't always strike down their intended victims as Sofia discovers her ambition may cost her far more than she expected to pay.

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**_Domna, Part Five: The Forgotten Heir_**

**_When the Solon ignores an imminent threat, one woman will go to any extreme to save him, protect her son, and ensure the stability of their realm._**

Sirius Verus believes his rule is secure, but when a plot is discovered to overthrow him, he refuses to accept that the person he trusts most is behind it. With an enemy army ready to march on the capital, Sirius's days as Solon and his family's lives are numbered.

Unwilling to let the threat fester, Sofia and Lucius take matters into their own hands, but this vicious retribution leaves Sirius fearful of making Lucius heir.

From the comfort of the Solonian Palace to the wilds of the Island of Naimo, Part Five of the _Domna_ serial tests the limits of sibling rivalry, family loyalty, and the future of Osteria.

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**_Domna, Part Six: The Solon's Wife_**

**_A life of love or a life of power. A promise to the gods or following your heart's desire. The choice must be made._**

The Solon is ill. If he dies, Sofia will be forced not only to fight for her son's right to rule, but will also face making good on a promise she made to the gods long ago. A promise she no longer wishes to fulfill.

As fate catapults her from joy to sorrow, from hope to despair, and from certainty to doubt, Sofia finds herself trapped between her two strongest desires.

In this final part of the _Domna_ serial, the struggle for power grows to its deadliest proportions yet and the choices Sofia must make will tear her world apart.

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**_13th Hour: Tales from Light to Midnight_**

**_From light tales of legends and love, to dark stories of ancient beasts and a desperate chef, 13th Hour will delight you, mystify you, and make you cringe._**

_13th Hour_ 's seventeen tales tick through questions such as....Can you dream forever? What is it really like to work for the gods? What would you do for love? Or for revenge? Do fabled creatures still stalk the earth? What lurks in paradise? What is your family's darkest secret? And many more.

So sit down and unwind your clocks because it's time for the 13th Hour.
_Take a Tour of Osteria_

No matter what genre an author writes in, his or her characters need a place to live. And in fantasy fiction, the writer (that's me!) gets to create a whole world for their characters to cavort in.

For my first two fantasy series, I've stuck my characters in a world called Osteria that's just made for exploring.

So, I'm inviting you to come along with me on a tour of that world. Don't worry, it's completely free, there's no long security lines, and you won't feel a lick of jet lag.

On this tour you'll...

  * Travel along a self-guided journey through the lands of Osteria,
  * Introduce yourself to some of its inhabitants (although you might want to steer clear of a few of them)
  * Grab some behind-the-scenes historical peeks of the inspiration for this fantasy realm, and
  * Uncover some of Osteria's mythological influences

Wandering through this tour of my world isn't necessary to enjoy the books of Osteria, but stepping into Osteria itself and discovering the stories behind the stories will take you that much deeper into this new, yet familiar realm.

**_All set? Then_** ** _CLICK HERE_** ** _and let's go!_**
_Glossary_

**Agora:** The central marketplace of a city.

**Drachar:** The primary unit of currency used in Osteria. One hundred denaris equal one drachar.

**Herene:** A woman who serves Hera. Her chastity ensures the safety of the polis. Any Herene who does not adhere to her vows faces a death sentence.

**Kingdom:** A political division within Osteria. A kingdom maintains itself independent of the gods and goddesses of Olympus. Examples of kingdoms include Minoa and Amazonia.

**Polis ( _plural = poli_ ):** A political division within the land of Osteria. Ruled as a state from a powerful city, each polis has one of the Olympian gods (The Twelve) as its patron. Within the polis are smaller regions or districts ruled by governors who answer to the polis's ruling government. There are twelve poli.

**Scapegoat:** A tradition in some poli where one person accepts all the sins of the polis. He leaves the polis for a period of one year taking the polis's sins with him. After the year, he may return.

**Solon:** The title of the ruler of Portaceae. The position is inherited and given only to men. His wife is the Solonia.

**Stirgil:** A long blade used to scrape cleansing oil from the skin.

**The Twelve:** The twelve gods of Olympus. Each god oversees the proper rule of one of Osteria's twelve poli. They do not play a role in any of the kingdoms of Osteria.

**Vigile:** Osteria's police and fire-fighting team. The vigiles also make up the defensive forces when a polis is at war.
**The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles**

Copyright © 2014 by Tammie Painter

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except in the manner of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Request for permission to use longer citations should be addressed to the author. Please respect the law and the rights of the author and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be published or uploaded without permission from the author or publisher.. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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To learn more about the author visit: _TammiePainter.com_ _. _

Or contact the author by email at

_Tammie@tammiepainter.com_

Mailing Address

Black Rabbit Publishing

P.O. Box 165

Netarts, Oregon 97143, USA

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_Cover Image by Andrew Poplavsky_
