The Trials of Hercules Read Free Page B

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