The Trials of Hercules by Tammie Painter Page B

the convicted arrives, I will beseech the gods to look into the person’s heart and judge him justly. I am supposed to remain impartial during this, but find I cannot do so. Never once have the gods seen fit to spare the convicted, but I continue the ritual all the same.
    Twelve marble columns run along either side of the temple—one column for each of Osteria’s gods. Through a masonry trick I have yet to figure out, the rearmost column that represents Hera appears taller and further away from the other columns although measurements have shown each column is the same height and distance from its neighbor. A statue of Hera, regally seated with a peacock at her feet, fills the space at the rear of the temple. I’ve never liked this statue. It’s too cold and too unwelcoming to make people love her. But Hera does not demand love. She demands loyalty.
    I make my way past the marble columns, lighting a stick of incense and placing it in a notch at the base of each column as I offer the column’s corresponding god a prayer for the convicted. With each stick I place, I repeat my plea to judge fairly. And, as much as I hate the thought, to make death come quickly if that is how they rule.
    Once finished with the ritual I kneel in front of Hera’s statue admiring the intricate detail of each feather of the peacock’s tail that, rather than fanning in vanity, remains closed and flows onto the floor like an extension of Hera’s gown. Unsure of what more I can say to sway The Twelve, I utter no more prayers.
    As morning light, filtered pink by the thinning clouds, fills the interior of the temple, the heavy footfalls of men crunch through the dry grass of the field beyond the temple grounds. They will be here soon. I stand and turn to leave the temple’s chilly interior. Despite my attempts to remain neutral and composed, with each column I pass my eyes burn and my throat clenches with threatening tears. I cannot be seen crying. I am a Herene. Unemotional and impartial. Pausing at the top of the steps, I inhale deeply forcing the tears down with each breath.
    A man stands to the edge of the vault keeping himself distant from the guards. Once I see him, I don’t know how I hadn’t caught sight of his unruly red hair when I arrived. Or had he shown up in reverent silence during my devotions within the temple? He bows low as I come down the steps.
    “Greetings, Iolalus.”
    “Gods be with you, priestess.” He stands upright and gives me a shaky smile.
    “Where is your cousin?”
    “Coming across the field.” He points to the marching men.
    “No, your other cousin. Our fearless Solon.” As judge and as leader, Eury is required to attend when someone is sent under.
    “I don’t keep tabs on him.”
    We stand in silence as the men close the gap. The guards breathe heavily, but Herc’s breaths are no different than if he’s been taking a morning stroll. Until he sees the vault. When he catches sight of the gaping hole, his eyes lock on it and his breathing comes in short huffs through flared nostrils.
    “Prisoner in,” one of the guards commands.
    This can’t be happening. He’s the Hero of Hestia. He saved me.
    A trickling sound comes from his direction. I flick my eyes to the puddle at his feet, then quickly look to the horizon. I refuse to shame him by taking notice, but the guards start giggling like schoolchildren.
    “Blood crimer, in. You insult the gods,” a guard barks.
    “Enough of that,” I command. “Do not dare to presume you know the gods’ minds.”
    The guards shift awkwardly on their feet. Ignoring them, Herc steps into the metal coffin and I hear a wet sniff from Iolalus who stands at my side. The heat behind my eyes is already welling up again. Iolalus cannot cry. If he does, I know I won’t be able to maintain my composure.
    Before lowering himself into the box, Herc removes a charm from his neck and hands it to his cousin. He then fixes his eyes on me. Does he remember me? I am older now,