“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.
4
E
URY
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.