“HIGHNESS, A MESSAGE for you.”
From my reclined position, I reluctantly open my eyes to look up at a tow-haired boy holding out a folded piece of parchment for me to take. Only yesterday I discovered the fields beyond Portaceae’s temple to Hera provide an excellent spot for lounging. In the early afternoon of these unseasonably warm days of early fall, the scent of lavender wafts over the air, making it easy to slip into slumber. Unfortunately, as second-in-command of the Illamosian vigiles and Prince of Illamos Valley, these restful moments are often disturbed by messages. I push myself up to sit cross-legged in the grass and trade a coin for the slip of parchment. Before I can open the letter, a tall, red-haired man drops onto the grass next to me.
“Iolalus,” I say in greeting. Despite being royalty myself, I give Portaceae’s new Solon the respect he deserves and bow my head.
“Oh, stop with the formality. I can’t stand it. Truly, I’m about ready to hold an election to give the people someone else to bow and scrape to.”
“They’d still choose that horse twat face of yours especially after this victory,” says Odysseus as he strides up to us.
“Only thanks to you convincing men like your cousin here and so many other vigiles to help me.” Iolalus grins, then adds, “I can’t believe they agreed to stay after smelling your pony fart breath.”
Odysseus belts out a laugh. Before Iolalus took the Solonship, vigiles from Aryana, Osteria’s most aggressive polis, had invaded Portaceae’s borders. Odysseus, commander of the Illamosian vigiles, had been serving duty in Portaceae at the time. His messages to Osteria’s ten other poli brought enough forces to drive the Areans back to their homeland in the east. I and a band of my best vigiles had been among the first to answer his call. Although I felt it my duty to help my neighbor to the north and found it a joy to fight alongside my notorious cousin, I also brought with me a hope that success in the battle might earn me a portion of rare praise from my mother and father. The slip of parchment sealed with the grape cluster emblem of Illamos Valley, brings a bloom of anticipation to my heart that my hope will be realized.
“What news?” Odysseus asks, nodding at the note in my hand. He stretches out in the grass, leaning back on his elbows with an air of calm confidence I often try to copy, but never seem able to match. His sharp green eyes, that always carry a hint of cunning mischief, shine in the late afternoon light. “Has Achilles finally decided to join the battle now that it’s over?”
“I heard his mother won’t let him fight,” Iolalus says.
It’s true. Although an Oracle once claimed Achilles would become Osteria’s most sought after warrior and had supposedly been gifted by the gods with fighting skills, no one has ever seen him in battle. Not even mock battle. As high-born children, Achilles and I were both educated by the wise centaur, Chiron. Like most did, I left when I was sixteen, but Achilles – despite being a year older than me – remained with Chiron. When this call came up, it was said Achilles’s mother, fearing some prophecy, hid him away and even Chiron, who I swear knows everything, does not know where his former pupil is. Even though I know him to be intelligent and ready for any physical challenge, most believe that Achilles may not even know how to handle a sword and hides behind his mother’s skirts to avoid tarnishing the reputation that has grown up around him.
I break the seal. Each word scratched into the parchment wears away my sunny mood over the thrill of an easily won triumph and the prideful hope of pleasing my parents.
“Pelias has taken over the rule of Illamos Valley.” I look at Odysseus who now sits up, his face etched in concern as he reaches for the note. “He has imprisoned my mother and father.”
“Doesn’t Dionysus have any say in the matter? Does he offer them no protection?” Iolalus asks.
Each polis of Osteria is under the protection of one of the twelve gods of Mount Olympus. Hera although recently remiss in her duties, oversees Portaceae, while Dionysus, the god of wine and revelry, serves as patron god of Illamos Valley. Although the fields of Illamos Valley sprout much of the fruit, vegetables and nuts for Osteria, it’s the Valley’s grape vines and the fermented product of those vines that first attracted Dionysus to my wealthy city-state.
“Dionysus ensures the grapes grow and that the Valley’s vineyards remain fertile and protected,” Odysseus says with a critical note to his voice. “Unlike Hera who has to have her hand in every Portacean pie, as long as Illamos Valley’s leader respects the vineyards and fields, our god fails to meddle in trifling matters like politics. Unless Pelias sets fire to the vines, Dionysus won’t be roused by this news.”
“I must return home.” I stand, ready to go this instant.
“You’ll miss the victory party tonight,” Iolalus says as he rises to his feet.
“Celebrating with Illamosian wine, no doubt,” I tease and clap the new leader amicably on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I get my fill.” I fasten my belt and scabbard around my waist, tie my dagger to my calf and hoist a travel pack onto my shoulders. Out of habit, for reassurance I touch my hand to the grape cluster charm of the Illamosian vigiles that hangs from my neck. I must get to my father to find out if this news is true and, if needed, to fight for my polis. I start toward the path that will take me to the Osterian Road, but get only ten paces through the field before the sounds of Iolalus’s and Odysseus’s laughter hit my ears. I brush the back of my tunic making certain it hasn’t hitched up to expose my rear end. As children, Odysseus once let me go an entire day with my tunic like that and I still carry the habit of checking my backside whenever I feel flustered with nerves or confusion.
The tunic is as it should be, so I look down to my feet. I know I look ridiculous in these sandals that have clearly seen better days and that are too big for my feet, but they were what I found beside my bed in place of my boots when I woke this morning. It’s a silly joke and I hope by wearing them I will shame the person who stole my boots into returning them. With the laughter behind me, I feel certain in my suspicions that Odysseus is the thief. I turn around, expecting to see my cousin waggling my boots at me. But no, the joke at my expense continues and Odysseus stands empty-handed. I question him and Iolalus with a scolding stare.
“You never change, do you?” asks Odysseus who now stands grinning next to Iolalus.
“I know Odysseus smells like the wrong side of a pig’s anus,” Iolalus says, “but I hope his stench hasn’t made you lose your senses.”
I try to erase it, but I feel the scrunch of confusion creeping over my face. Iolalus points to the field behind him. My horse grazes on the grass growing between the grey-green shrubs of lavender. My cheeks burn as if someone has thrown a log on my internal fire. No wonder my parents think so little of me. Trying to play it off, I roll my eyes to chide my own forgetfulness. Odysseus and Iolalus stride over as I remove the hobble from my horse’s legs.
“Lucky I’m here to think for you or you’d have been halfway to the Valley before realizing you should be looking at the Osterian Road from a few feet higher up. If the Solon can spare me I think it might be best if I go with you. These Areans are worse than Old Lerna – cut one head off and two more sprout in its place.” Odysseus’s tone is jovial but the look that passes between him and Iolalus speaks of the same heavy concern that has settled on my chest.
Pelias, my father’s adopted brother and the commander of the Arean vigiles, represents the Aryana polis on the Osterian Council – the body that sprang up a decade ago to oversee what they deem as Osterian-wide matters. Matters that primarily include collecting fees and fines, and creating silly laws such as the strict regulation of the limited amount of electricity found in a few of Osteria’s poli.
The Osterian Council also have their hands in the dispersal of grain, a job once left to the monarchs of Demos, but when King Athamas abandoned his throne in search of his son Phrixus, a rebellion deposed Ino’s twins and put Priam – a man too meek to oppose the Council – in the president’s seat. Although they claim themselves a neutral branch of government, the Council’s reach has grown in recent years. There are even rumors that some of the members long to rule Osteria through one man with the other eleven serving as advisors, but despite the talk they have never interfered with the politics of the twelve poli – politics that range from the democracy of Cedonia to the more common monarchies of Portaceae and Illamos Valley. Pelias taking control of Illamos Valley smacks of the Osteria Council digging its claws into areas it shouldn’t. Or perhaps this is just another show of the aggressive hunger for battle that seems woven into the fabric of Arean existence.
“Of course, go,” Iolalus says, stroking the muzzle of the black horse he obtained only weeks ago from one of the districts in southern Portaceae – an immortal and fearless beast, perfect for the battlefield. “And don’t hesitate to send word if you need any help.”
When Odysseus and I mount our horses – large yet nimble Astorian-trained steeds that had been ideal on the front lines in the battles that ended a few days ago – I catch sight of the deep scar on Odysseus’s calf. I’m so used to the craggy mark I rarely notice it, but on the occasions I do my gut lurches at the memory of his screams the day he received it. Nor do I forget the chastising I earned from my father that day as if it was I, not a wild boar, who inflicted the wound.
As we trot off, we pass many faces that have become familiar over the previous weeks. Some nod their heads to me, some salute Odysseus, many bow low to the two of us, but a few keep their heads high. As bastard sons of Zeus, men such as Perseus of the Docklands see themselves as equal to, perhaps even better than a prince and his cousin who, although descended from the god Hermes, are merely the messenger god’s great-grandchildren rather than direct spawn of godly seed. At the junction to the Osterian Road, I glance once more at the crumpled letter I hold in my hand.
“Think the words have changed?” Odysseus asks.
“I had hoped they were words of praise from my father.” I smile weakly as if in apology for my longing. “The men I led were at the front against the Areans and I didn’t lose a single one.”
“No, instead you lost your polis,” Odysseus says in a teasing tone that carries no malice.
“Thank you for the reminder. How could Pelias betray us like this? Or maybe it’s not betrayal. Maybe there is truly something wrong in the Valley.”
“Not likely. Pelias is an Arean. An Arean on the Osteria Council. A visit from him cannot bode well. Don’t worry though,” he says with encouragement, “at least you have me to do your thinking for you. Look, here come Castor and Pollux. Gods, did I ever swagger like that?”
I hold back the comment that my cousin still does swagger exactly like the two young men strutting toward us. They lead identical white horses and are mirror images of one another. These two, who wear the vigile charms of both Vancuse’s dove and Illamos Valley’s grape cluster, are not only my friends who fought with great skill by my side over the past few weeks, but will also be my brothers in only a couple years’ time when my twelve-year betrothal to their sister, Helen, ends and I take her as my wife.
Despite rule in their polis of Vancuse being democratic, the ancestors of their mother Leda had won the majority of the Vancusian vote for over two centuries. As Clytemnestra, the eldest daughter of Leda, has no interest in becoming a leader and Helen will help me rule Illamos Valley after we wed, it will be the twins who will run for presidency when the time arrives. If history is any record, one of them will win, but one cannot rely on a family name to secure position. So, to make themselves more worthy candidates, both boys enlisted as vigiles at the age of sixteen. As a gesture of good will between my polis and Vancuse, they had been sent to train and serve in Illamos Valley. Although, thanks to normally light duty augmented with plentiful helpings of high-quality wine, most sixteen-year-olds yearn for a place in the Illamosian vigiles. However, the twins excelled at their two-year training and, despite their youth, were the first two I chose to join me in the defense of Portaceae.
“Are we returning already?” Castor asks. It had taken me some time to tell the difference between the twins until finally Odysseus pointed out that Castor has black eyes while Pollux has blue ones. Although both were born to Leda within the same hour, rumors state that Castor was fathered by a mortal man while Pollux’s sire was the god Zeus himself. Still, with Zeus’s inability to resist mortal women, it seems every ruling family in Osteria can claim relation to the head god of the Twelve.
“If you like, you can stay for the festivities,” I say. “But my father’s throne has been usurped. I must return.”
“Then it’s our duty to join you,” Pollux offers with an eager glint in his royal blue eyes. Although rumored to be Osteria’s most vicious fighters, it had taken no more than a few skirmishes to scatter the Areans from Portaceae. I have no doubt the quick success of their first battle has given them a taste for fighting. A taste I know must be tempered to keep these two from charging into war without thought. After all, not every success is so easily won.
Still, I am thankful for the twins’ enthusiasm. I only wish the letter had given more details. Is Pelias’s presence in the Valley an invasion or a diplomatic matter? If diplomatic, then rushing in with an army of vigiles will do nothing but cause further trouble for my polis. And if it is an invasion I should bring the rest of my men. What will it prove to ride into Salemnos, the Valley’s capital city, with only Odysseus and a couple boys barely out of vigile training by my side? The usurper would laugh his Arean head off.
No, I have to believe the message, signed by Pelias himself is an invitation to talk, not fight. I glance to Odysseus. He makes no effort to rally more troops, a skill he has proven he can do with speed and ease with this Portacean campaign. I take his silence as a sign that entering Salemnos with three men is just the right number.