The Trials of Hercules (30 page)

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.”