I shrugged. “It’s nothing.” Again I tried to move past him, adding, “Please excuse me, sir; I have to see if my master needs me.”
I only wanted an excuse to get away from him, back to my own room. In my haste, I’d picked a poor one, because the next thing the man asked, quite reasonably, was, “Who is your master? I doubt you’ll find him in his room at this time of day. Why don’t you come along with me to the training ground? I’ll help you look for him.”
He sounded genuinely concerned, as if he really cared about helping a grubby, unimportant “boy” like me. He seemed to be only slightly older than my brothers, with nothing remarkable about his looks—he was shorter than most of the other hunters, had dull black hair, brown eyes, pockmarked skin, and a body as solid and ordinary as a bullock’s—yet it was clear he had a good heart. Even though his concern was bringing him dreadfully close to undoing my disguise, I found myself drawn to him.
“Thank you, sir, but I still have to go back to my master’s room,” I replied, evading his question. “I’m responsible for carrying his weapons. If he’s not still there, he’ll be waiting for me at the training ground, and he’s not a patient man. Please let me pass!”
“Ah, so you’re one of the weapons bearers?” (Under other circumstances I might have appreciated his friendliness, but not when it was delaying me, no matter how attractive I found him.) “It’s a thankless job, isn’t it? I remember my days serving my uncle on his adventures. Talk about a man with no patience! But a celebrated hero, then as now. The places he took me, the exploits we shared, the marvels I saw him perform, sometimes with his bare hands! It was an honor to serve—” He stopped, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m sorry, lad—you’re in a hurry and I’m keeping you from your duties.” He stepped to one side on the stairs.
But I made no move to go on my way. All at once I recognized the face I’d only glimpsed at my uncle’s table. “Sir, are you—are you Iolaus, great Herakles’s nephew?”
He gave an uncomfortable laugh and scratched his head. “I can’t deny it. How did you know me?”
“I saw you at dinner.” That was the truth, even if he’d believe I’d done so from a place at the servants’ table, not the king’s. “I’ve heard the poets sing of your exploits. It’s an honor to meet you.”
His mouth curved into a charming smile. “The real honor would be to meet Herakles. Surely you’ve heard what some of the other hunters say about me? That Lord Oeneus allowed me to join the hunt only because of my uncle’s deeds, not mine.”
“If you ask me, some of the men who scoff at you wouldn’t fare so well if anyone looked closely at their claims to fame,” I replied hotly. “Everyone knows that you were the one who helped Herakles slay the nine-headed Hydra!”
“Yes, well…” He took a deep breath. “Lad, did you ever see a nine-headed beast of any sort, mouse or monster?”
“No, but—”
“No one has, including me and my uncle. But the poets who sing for their living know they won’t earn a full belly from spinning tales about how Herakles and his nephew slew an ordinary swamp snake; a monstrously big swamp snake, as thick around the body as a pillar, but with just one head, after all.”
“Oh.” I was deeply disappointed.
“Now, now, cheer up.” Iolaus put on a jolly face. “No need to lose heart just because my adventures are such trivial things. All the more reason for you to grow up strong and brave and perform truly heroic deeds. Show the rest of us how it’s done, eh? Now run along. Your master’s waiting and I’ll feel awful if he punishes you because I kept you chatting here.” He turned and bounded down the stairs. I was sorry to see him go.
I made it to my chamber without further incident and saw that Atalanta had been there. The length of cloth was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar piece of clothing. My bedside water jug had been refilled to the brim, and there was a small, sealed clay pot next to it. I broke the seal, removed the lid, and dipped one finger into the thick yellow salve inside. It felt cool, smelled like honey, and brought me sweet relief as soon as I smoothed it over my suffering skin. I blessed Atalanta’s name.
My third day of riding lessons slipped by in a dance of walk, trot, and canter. My style when mounting and dismounting the horse still left a lot to be desired, but Atalanta was satisfied with how much better I sat once I was on the stallion. When Aristos moved, I straightened my spine without making it rigid and leaned back a bit, instead of bending forward to steady myself. The Mykenaean breeches helped, giving my legs a more secure grip on his sides.
Trotting still jounced me almost as much as an oxcart ride, but I didn’t fall off. The canter was a smoother gait—I loved it!—but what I really wanted to do was recapture the amazing sensation I’d experienced when Atalanta first swept me up onto horseback and gave Aristos his wings.
“Can I run him?” I asked. “Really run him?”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Atalanta replied. “If you think you can—”
I was off before she could finish her sentence. A kick of my heels to Aristos’s flanks and we were off. The first burst of speed stole my breath. I was ecstatic, feeling the wind, skimming across the ground—
—sliding too far forward to control the horse properly, sheepskin or no sheepskin beneath my seat, breeches or no breeches on my legs. I wasn’t ready to deal with how slippery a horse’s back could become once he worked up a sweat. As if horsehair needed something to make it even more slippery than it already was! The stallion wasn’t just running, he was running away with me, heading for the trees. If I hit a low branch head-on—