The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles Read online

  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.”