“Here we go,” said the hero and downed the contents of his cup.
Wood creaked on its hinges, and faces emerged in doorways and windows. Tentatively at first, the people of Corinth crept from their homes. When they saw Heracles and the bloody carcass of the Lamia, the dam of fear erupted, and people flooded into the square, clustering around the hero like ants to an overripe fig.
“Now where is that boy...” The flame-haired man spied his prey and stalked over to a younger man—nobility by the looks of his clothing—loitering at the edge of the adoring crowd.
“Drinks for everyone on Polyphemus!” He clapped the lad on the back.
The gathered Corinthians cheered while the young noble scowled.
The flame-haired man laughed. “That will teach you to bet against the greatest hero who ever lived.” He steered him toward the kapeleion. “Come on, you wouldn’t want to keep all these people waiting for a drink now, would you?”
Danae watched them go, her breath still raw and heavy. She slid her hand into her bag and curled her fingers around the prophecy stone. Even through its cloth wrapping she could feel it pulsing. Like a heartbeat.
Through the wonder and amazement and sheer blood-boiling terror, when she watched Heracles slay that beast she had felt a deeper truth, free of logic or reason. And the same voice that had awoken in her outside Delphi had spoken again, whispering one word.
Fate.
20
The Lion
As the daylight faded, the crowd finally dispersed and traipsed back to their homes. In the end it took ten men to drag the Lamia’s corpse from the square. The stones were scrubbed, but the tinge of its dark blood remained, staining the slabs.
From conversations she’d overheard, Danae gathered the monster had emerged from a cave in the hills above Corinth a few months prior and would periodically venture down to the town to steal children and feast upon their flesh. The town’s soldiers had proved no match for the Lamia, so resorted to keeping watch and sounding a warning bell whenever the creature was spotted. In their desperation, the people had sent word to Greece’s greatest hero. And he had answered their call.
Heracles and his companions remained at the kapeleion to eat and drink their way through the rest of the young noble’s purse. Danae lingered too, sitting at a table in the corner, within earshot of Heracles’s group.
She didn’t know what she was doing. She should have found a map, left Corinth and been on her way to the Black Sea by now. But she could not silence the echo of the voice that was hers and yet not hers.
Fate.
The hero was important to her quest. She just had to find out why.
Her hands nudged the cup of wine she’d been nursing for the last hour, as the barkeeper placed a candle on her table. He gave her a strange look but said nothing. A seer’s coin was as good as any other. Her eldest brother, Calix, once told her barkeepers prided themselves on guarding the secrets of their patrons just as much as the quality of their wine.
She watched him move over to Heracles’s table with another candle. The hero sat a good head taller than his companions, his eyes crinkling with amusement as the red-haired man talked animatedly. At the climax of the story, Heracles let out a laugh that echoed round the kapeleion, and the woman snorted out a poorly timed gulp of wine and pounded the table with her fist, while the younger man slapped her vigorously on the back. They’d all had a lot to drink.
It was strange to see the hero like this, sitting amongst a group of ordinary people, sharing wine like he was one of them. She’d always imagined Heracles to be more god than mortal. A man of dignity and power, a miniature version of his father.
Zeus, the God of Thunder, the creator of mankind, the deity she was prophesied to destroy.
“It’s a fool’s errand,” said the flame-haired man loudly.
“I don’t know,” said the older man. “Apparently, this Jason has already gathered quite a following. They’re calling themselves ‘the Argonauts,’ after the ship King Pelias has had specially commissioned.”
“Ridiculous name,” muttered the woman.
He ignored her. “Apparently it’s the fastest vessel ever made.”
“I don’t care how bloody fast it is,” said the flame-haired man. “Even if the western wind blew us all the way, it would take most of the year to get across the Black Sea. Colchis is at the end of the world. Let’s go home to Mycenae.”
Danae sat up, straining to catch the next words.
“Mycenae isn’t home,” said Heracles darkly.
“The last labor that bastard Eurystheus sent us on was a joke.” The woman drained her cup and slammed it down on the table. “Stealing cattle? Who does he think we are, farmhands?” Then she added quickly, “No offense, Hylas.”
The young man shrugged. “We did have to kill a giant first. And there’s nothing wrong with being a farmhand.”
