The Voyage of Heroes
CONTENTS
Title Page V
Osteria
Chapter One - Pelias
Chapter Two - Hera
Chapter Three - Jason
Chapter Four - Hera
Chapter Five - Typhon
Chapter Six - Pelias
Chapter Seven - Jason
Chapter Eight - Hermes
Chapter Nine - Perseus
Chapter Ten - Typhon
Chapter Eleven - Pelias
Chapter Twelve - Odysseus
Chapter Thirteen - Hermes
Chapter Fourteen - Jason
Chapter Fifteen - Hera
Chapter Sixteen - Perseus
Chapter Seventeen - The Pelt
Chapter Eighteen - Typhon
Chapter Nineteen - Pelias
Chapter Twenty - Jason
Chapter Twenty-One - Hera
Chapter Twenty-Two - Odysseus
Chapter Twenty-Three - Medea
Chapter Twenty-Four - Jason
Chapter Twenty-Five - Ares
Chapter Twenty-Six - Jason
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Orpheus
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Jason
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Hera
Chapter Thirty - Odysseus
Chapter Thirty-One - Medea
Chapter Thirty-Two - Odysseus
Chapter Thirty-Three - Pelias
Chapter Thirty-Four - Hermes
Chapter Thirty-Five - Jason
Chapter Thirty-Six - Odysseus
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Pelias
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Odysseus
Chapter Thirty-Nine - The Apple
Chapter Forty - Hermes
Chapter Forty-One - Jason
Chapter Forty-Two - Hermes
Chapter Forty-Three - Medea
Chapter Forty-Four - Jason
Chapter Forty-Five - Odysseus
Chapter Forty-Six - Epilogue - Pasiphae
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Copyright
The Voyage of Heroes
Book Two of the Osteria Chronicles
* * *
by
TAMMIE PAINTER
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
Pelias
INVADE ILLAMOS VALLEY.
This was the command Ares issued me only a couple months ago.
“I promise, it will be easy,” he had said, his dark eyes shining with anticipation.
“May I ask why?” The idea of invading a polis did not bother me, but my heart gave a slight tug at the thought of fighting my way into the city-state where my brother ruled as king and Polymele as queen. If Ares ordered me to, I would kill Aeson, but I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. As soon as this thought entered my head, I cursed myself for such an un-Arean attitude.
Ares stared at me. The moment I asked the question I knew I shouldn’t have. Who dares question a god? Still, he must have been full of a wonderful plan because his face showed no hint of annoyance at my faux pas, only amusement.
“If you succeed, then I will tell you.”
With that, I was left to strategize. Since I didn’t want them interfering, my first step was to inform the Osteria Council, tell them some lie to make any invasion seem diplomatic. It wouldn’t take much convincing, I only had to start off with the promise that each member would receive delivery of a barrel of the best vintage Illamos Valley had to offer. The value of the bribe would be greater than the annual wages of an Arean civilian, but keeping the Council out of my way would be worth every drachar.
Even with this bribe, arguments were raised. But aren’t there always arguments when politicians cram themselves into a room?
“Why have you called us here, Pelias?” asked Acrisius. The old man had been dressed in a gold-trimmed toga, wore emeralds on his sandals and tiny diamonds on his fingernails. Expense meant nothing to him or to most members of the Osteria Council who looked like a parade of human peacocks with all their finery as they filed into the Council Hall’s meeting room. “You know it’s a great expense to travel here when Council isn’t in session.”
“My apologies, I know you have tight schedules.” And even tighter purse strings. “But Illamos Valley has grown weak. My brother Aeson and his wife have been partaking too much in the gifts of Dionysus. We know the polis not only provides us the best wine in Osteria, but it’s also a vital region for produce. We can’t let Illamos Valley fall under bad management. I would like to have permission as a member of the Council to oversee the Valley until my brother and sister-in-law can recover.”
“Is this some Arean ploy to take over the polis? We all know the Areans long for more power,” Cassiopeia said with a snip to her voice. With high cheekbones and flawless skin, she retains the glamour of her youth, but the sag at her neck waving like a flag heralds her age better than any news crier. “We are the Council, after all. If you want control of Illamos Valley, say it and get to the point.” She was always the most astute of the Council, seeing through bluffs and more than willing to call a member out on them.
“If I wanted to take over Osteria, I would invade Demos. After all, we know whoever controls the grain controls Osteria. I believe it best for Osteria if Aeson is put aside for the time being.” I said the words smoothly, but as I strode around the chamber my leg had given one of its betraying hitches. The old wound rarely troubled me. After all, my muscles have been strengthened and my gait has been honed by decades of service to the Arean vigiles. But on occasion the injury acts up and the glitch in my stride makes me move as awkwardly as I did my first day of vigile training.
“It’s your own brother,” Priam had complained, his face still pale from my jest of invading Demos, the polis he presides over.
At Priam’s accusatory tone, at the thought of the look on my brother’s face when I seized Illamos Valley and took the Staff of Dionysus from him, my leg rattled out a spasm that staggered me.
Aeson saved you and now you plan to betray him.
“It will make it all that much easier then, won’t it?” I slid smoothly into a seat, playing off the falter. “He’ll welcome me with open arms. After all, I want to help. I’m no barbarian. I don’t intend to kill him.”
I don’t know if I could.
I shook the idea out of my head, hating my mind for its weakness and sentimentality. Thank the gods that, although they see our actions, they cannot read our minds. How disappointed Ares would be if he could.
“Fine, do as you must,” Acrisius had said. I stood ready to offer my thanks for what I would have done with or without their approval. It was their approval though, and their staying out of my way that would make the invasion all that much easier.
Just as I was about to make my farewells, Cassiopeia added, “But you will take Priam here as your secretary. He will report what goes on and ensure that delivery you promised reaches each of us. I know you Areans can be a bit forgetful when it comes to paying dues.”
Although I could feel the tension in my lips, I forced a sneer back as I smiled and nodded my assent. “I will send him word when I am ready. There are preparations to mak
e.”
Upon my return to Aryana, to the vigiles over which I commanded, I implemented the second stage of my plan: Invade Portaceae. Not its capital and not a full scale invasion. Instead a century of vigiles would harass Portaceae’s outer districts to create a distraction from my true plans.
For this engagement I sent only the lowest ranks of Arean vigiles, fighters better suited to guarding Aryana’s immense population of sheep than to mounting an attack on a polis. Still, even a low-ranking Arean vigile is no match for civilians. I also knew with Portaceae’s strained finances, the polis couldn’t afford to maintain a proper line of defense and its vigiles had been spread thinly throughout the districts. I made certain the strongest forces, the vigiles with the highest level of the vicious Arean training, remained behind with me to be ready for the true campaign I was impatient to launch.
As things will when you’re eagerly waiting for action, waiting to please your god, waiting for your ruse to catch someone’s attention, the time had drawn on for an age. The troops went in, ravaged two districts within the Portaceae polis and still the Solon, Eury Stephanos, failed to act, failed to call in vigiles from other poli to aid Portaceae. Finally, weeks after the initial assault, something changed. A new Solon with more gumption than the last realized the need to defend the districts. Before the new Solon, Iolalus, even had the chance to take his vow to serve Portaceae, vigiles had been called up from the other poli to come to Portaceae’s aid.
And of course Aeson didn’t hesitate to send his best forces to defend his neighbor to the north. Answering the first call for help, he sent his own elite band of vigiles that included his son, Jason.
With its best trained vigiles out of the way, Illamos Valley was ripe for invasion.
* * *
I call up my forces and send word for Priam to be ready to ride south with us. I hope the meek man will make excuses not to go, that he will offer to join us later and never show up. But on the day and at the hour I had said my troops and I will be passing through his borders, he waits with his son, Paris, mounted beside him. One look at the Astorian racing steeds they ride – horses renowned for their speed and stamina – destroys any hope I have of leaving Paris and Priam choking on the dust stirred up by my forces.
I detest having Priam along, not only because of the moral high ground the Demosian seems to perch himself on, but also because everywhere Priam goes, Paris goes as well. I roll my eyes every time they ride up alongside me on the way south to Illamos Valley. It does not give the appearance of a virile Arean on campaign, but of a man traveling with his elderly father and brother as if we are heading to a family gathering.
I stop myself. Who am I kidding? With my blonde hair greying at the temples and the hawk-feet wrinkles branching out from my eyes, no one would ever mistake me for Paris’s brother. No, as much as I long for my youth, as much as I yearn to not wake with aches in my joints and to have more time to enjoy my inevitable rule over all of Osteria, time rides a faster steed than I do. Regardless of how distasteful accepting the part is to me, I suppose it is the role of Paris’s father that I would be cast in.
Still, I know the retinue behind us does not look familial even though I have instructed my vigiles to swap out their dress armor – breastplates embellished with the crossed arrows of Aryana – and wear the plain breastplates of battle. This way we would appear to be nothing more than another of the bands of troops marching off to help Portaceae. To stay as inconspicuous as possible, once we leave Demos, we skirt the fringes of Cedonia until we reach Eugenia, the southernmost district of Illamos Valley. Thankfully, Illamos Valley proves the old Arean adage that wealth often makes a polis lax in their defenses and we are able to ride straight through the unguarded border.
At the edge of Salemnos, the ruling city of Illamos Valley, I order the vigiles to fan out so their numbers won’t swarm the city and create a panic.
“Pick spots around the agora and the palace. Stay in groups of three. If there’s trouble, you have the right to subdue the people with force.”
“Pelias!” Priam scolds. My face fumes over his insolence, magnifying the unseasonable heat that has sweat trickling down my legs. A commander of the Arean vigiles on campaign is never questioned. By anyone. My rule is as complete as a king’s. But I have no time for trouble from Priam; I want the invasion done with and done smoothly so I can learn of Ares’s plan that I have waited so long to hear. I quickly turn up my lips into a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry, old man. If I know my brother he’ll fling open the doors and hand me the Staff of Dionysus. Then he’ll pour me a glass of wine while asking if he can do anything else for my comfort. There’ll be no fight from him. You’ll see.”
“And Polymele?” Priam prods.
Polymele, Queen of Illamos Valley. My heart clenches at the thought of seeing her. I may be here on Ares’s orders, but I can’t say that when he gave me those orders a certain longing, a certain excitement over the prospect of being near her once again didn’t consume me.
“There’ll be no fight,” I repeat gruffly.
And indeed there isn’t. My vigile generals having led the way, Priam, Paris and I enter into the city without opposition. Certainly people stare at us with scorn, fear and confusion, but none fight. They are like sheep waiting to find out where the herding dog wants them to go next. Never in Aryana would this happen. Even the civilians of Aryana are born to fight. Areans take pride in defending their polis. We would have stopped anyone who didn’t have express permission to be in Aryana before they were within five miles of our borders.
We ride to the heart of the city and pass through the agora that opens onto a long rectangular mall surrounded with gnarled grapevines that are rumored to be three centuries old, having been planted by the founder of the Illamos Valley polis and blessed by Dionysus himself. The autumn moon has only recently turned her first face and the vines hang heavy with grapes – some red, some green and others as black as night. The air is filled with the fruits’ sweet scent. It is a stark contrast to the stench of sheep dung and slaughterhouse blood that hovers over Arean agoras.
In the center of the agora amidst the vendors’ stalls stands a temple, small in comparison to those dedicated to the other gods in Osteria and miniscule to that of Hera’s, Portaceae’s prideful goddess. With vineyards and wineries dotting any land that isn’t being used for fruit, vegetable and nut crops, Dionysus needs little in the way of formal temples; the entire Valley is a monument to him. Opposite the temple perches a rostrum that rises at least a man’s height above the ground and is decorated with painted scenes of the grape harvest. From the frequent letters Aeson sends me I know the king and queen make speeches to their people from here as well as use the elevated platform for a seating area during official events when their thrones are brought out and a golden carpet stretches from the palace to the agora for them to walk on.
Even in the hazy heat, the marble palace of Salemnos gleams at the far end of the mall and grows brighter as I approach, forcing me to squint to block out its brilliance. The palace’s two-storied walls are decorated in carved reliefs of grapevines heavy with ripe clusters and amphorae spilling over with wine that is being collected in cups held by mortals and gods alike. The downspouts have also been fashioned to look like tilting jugs from which spews gallons of rain water into pools below whenever a storm settles over the Valley.
Being used to the plain square buildings and unadorned public areas of Aryana that are seen as places of function, not surfaces to be embellished, Salemnos gives me a headache with all its decorations. The only functional enhancement I know of here is the work engineers put in a decade ago to shore up the palace to protect it from the earthquakes that have become so common in Osteria.
They waste their time and effort on art when they should be training a stronger force of vigiles. That will quickly change under my rule.
I march up to the palace with Priam scurrying to stay by my side – Paris having last been seen leaning again
st the rostrum with three young women giggling at his flirtations. A short distance behind us, an impressive yet non-threatening number of six vigiles follow in rear-guard formation. At the palace’s entrance an Illamosian vigile wearing a grape-embossed breastplate blocks me from approaching the bronze doors that stand so tall a giant could pass through them without hitting his head.
“I’m only here to see my brother,” I say amiably.
Although Aeson is my half-brother through our mother Tyro, she insisted he be kept ignorant of our blood relation. Despite her efforts to keep me, her unwanted bastard, away from her true-born son, Aeson and I grew up side by side and he has always referred to me as his brother. The annoyance on Tyro’s face whenever she heard him call me this was my secret source of rare pleasure in my youth. Aeson even informed me once that his son, Jason, knows me as Uncle, and wouldn’t that just piss Tyro off if she were still alive?
“Your men must stay outside. Your weapons must remain with me.”
“Of course.” I don my most understanding smile as I unsheathe the sword at my waist. I start to hand it over then fumble with the hilt “Dear me, this heat makes my hands so sweaty. Oh, and I cut you. Damn my clumsy hands.” I point to a small cut on the man’s calf where the blade has nicked him.
“Just a scratch,” the guard mutters as he bends to pick up the weapon. His hand clasps on the hilt but then falls slack as he drops into a heap. Eury Stephanos of Portaceae may have been an idiot, but his hydra blood was well worth every drachar I paid for it. Even dry it kills in an instant. My own guards quickly shuffle the body into a position that makes it look as if the man has fallen asleep leaning against the balustrade.
I roll my eyes at Priam’s startled expression. Although I do note that the widening of his grey eyes does at least smooth out a few of the old man’s wrinkles. I must remember that trick to iron out my own creases.
I knock on the doors and they boom under my knuckles. An elderly man with a stance as proud as any vigile answers. His bright green eyes flick from my face to the slumped guard. “He was like that when we got here,” I say, then brush past the servant adding, “Sleeping on duty. He should really be reported.”