That spring we had been exploring the country north of Thrace, wandering wherever circumstances took us, enjoying the sights and scents of a new country, new friends and new experiences. And, of course, new places to fish. With the whole of the summer before us, and no urgent messages to return to Greece, we had passed up the caravan that offered us transport to the west coast and an easy sail to Corinth in favor of crossing the mountains to the south on foot.

It was midsummer when we threaded our way through the last pass of the first range of mountains, and stood at the beginning of a trail that descended into a high valley. Despite the heat of the sun, the air at that altitude was cool and fresh. The foothills, dotted with meadows of riotously colored wildflowers, leveled into tilled fields, small homesteads, and thick stands of woodland. To our right a spectacular waterfall cascaded from a high ledge into a pool from which ran a sparkling stream that meandered through fields green and golden with ripening crops. In the distance another range of mountains framed the valley against a deep blue sky.

"Wow!" Iolaus breathed, awestruck by the pristine loveliness of this remote place. "Now this is what I call a paradise. Hades would flip if he saw this place."

"No doubt," I grinned, "but he's�" I went quiet. Somewhere off to our left I could hear a faint cry.

"What?"

"Listen." I held up one hand and strained to hear as the faint call was repeated. "It sounds like someone calling for help."

"Yeah, I hear it, too." Iolaus pointed toward a wooded area at the foot of a rocky slope. "There."

We angled down the hillside, hurrying, the cry repeated twice more before going silent, the last barely a whimper, but it was enough for us to get a fix on its location. We pushed our way through a thick copse and into a meadow, where a small flock of sheep was grazing haphazardly.

"Sheep," Iolaus said, "should have a�"

"Shepherd." I finished. I raised my voice. "Halloooo."

There was no answer, but no good shepherd would leave his flock unattended, not so close to the mountains where there were wolves and big cats.

We spotted him almost immediately, lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of a low bluff, a mere boy in his early teens, thin, small for his age, with a mop of dark brown hair and a thick streak of drying blood tracking from his left eye to his chin. I gently pulled back the fold of his rough wool cloak to examine him for other injuries, while Iolaus knelt on his other side and rummaged in his carrysack for our medical supplies.

The blood on his face came from a gash on his forehead; but it was not deep and had already begun to clot with a black and blue bump forming around it. His arms and body seemed undamaged, but he was in serious trouble with his right leg. A long, deep gash ran along his thigh and was still oozing blood slowly but steadily, and had been for quite some time. Below the knee his leg was twisted at an unnatural angle and I could see the pearly sheen of bone through the broken skin.

The blood loss would have to be dealt with first and I hurriedly found the place to apply pressure. Iolaus was already unwinding the bundle of bandages we always carried with us.

"He must have fallen from there," Iolaus said, looking up the side of the bluff. And sure enough, there was a ragged trail of broken bushes and scuffs in the dirt where the boy fought a losing battle to stop his fall. "Lucky for him, we came along."

"Let's hope his luck holds. He looks to be in pretty bad shape." The boy's pulse was rapid, his breathing shallow, and his body cold with shock.

While I held the boy's leg steady, keeping the pressure on the injury, Iolaus wrapped him carefully in one of our blankets, sliding under him, and lifting him into his arms to keep him warm. The boy moaned and his eyelids fluttered, but did not open. Iolaus brushed the dark tresses away from the gash, and with a piece of cloth wetted from our waterskin began to gently wash away the dirt and dried blood.

The bleeding from the leg wound finally stopped, and I bandaged it snugly before turning my attention to the broken bone. It was a nasty break and would need the skill of a healer to set properly. I eased the broken bone as close to its normal position as I was able, and using sticks gathered from the edge of the woods for splints, I immobilized it with strips of cloth.

"Now we need to find his home," I said, rising and looking around.

"Hey, this is me you're talking to," Iolaus grinned up at me. "The world's greatest tracker. He came up here with his sheep, leaving a trail even you could follow."

"Hey, I'm not that bad. I have found you a time or two when you needed finding, as I recall." But I was nowhere near as good as Iolaus, and we both knew it. "Okay, I'll carry him, you lead the way."

"What about the sheep." Iolaus asked as I bent to lift the boy gently out of his arms.

"Unless sheep herding is also one of your many talents, we'll have to leave them here and come back for them later. And hope the wolves don't find them first."

I waited while Iolaus cast about the edge of the meadow for the trail and found it almost instantly. "You boys and girls behave yourselves," he told the sheep who were watching him curiously, "if you see any guys around here with big teeth and hairy suits, you better run for home." One young black-faced ram bleated at him and resumed munching the sweet grasses seemingly unconcerned.

Once off the meadow, we followed a downhill trail through a wood and shortly found ourselves on a path that skirted a cornfield. There were no houses in sight. Iolaus turned to speak to me, and then stopped, open-mouthed, staring over my shoulder. "Well, look at that," he said, amazed.

I turned my head carefully, so as not to jostle the boy. Behind us the sheep were just emerging from the wood, an elderly ewe leading the flock in a straggling, half-hearted line. Two lambs were gamboling along beside them and when one strayed too far, the ewe went after him, nipping at his hind quarters until he returned to his place. The black-faced ram was bringing up the rear, looking quite disgruntled.

Iolaus was shaking with laughter; they were a funny sight. "Who says sheep are stupid?" he wanted to know.

"Not me." I answered, grinning. "I never said that."

We would have been a funny sight, I am sure, if there had been anyone to see us. The two of us walked single file along the narrow track with a line of unruly sheep trailing behind. Only the ewe in front and the ram bringing up the rear were willing to keep to their places. The rest bumped and jostled one another for a better position, bleating irritably when pushed aside. But I was not in the mood at the moment to appreciate the humor, I was getting increasingly worried about the boy who seemed to be lapsing deeper into unconsciousness with every passing minute. To make matters even worse, the sky had clouded over; it would be raining before dusk.

The road seemed to meander endlessly through fields, orchards, and woodlands, while the sun slid toward the horizon, and my worry deepened. We had not yet seen another human soul, and I was beginning to think we three were alone in this valley, when a farmer appeared hurrying toward us along the path, obviously anxious to reach his home before the rain began. He stopped upon seeing us, eyeing us warily from his stern, suntanned weathered face, two strangers in a sparsely populated valley where everybody had probably known everybody else for all of their lives, and then spotting our wooly train, looked as if he might actually smile, until he saw the boy in my arms. He hurried forward, crying out. "What's happened? Who is it?"

I pulled the blanket away from the boy's face as Iolaus quickly explained how we found him. "Oh gods,' the man's face paled, "it's Mileandra's boy, Vasilios. Poor woman, this is the last thing she needs now. Her being widowed and all."

"Will you take us to her?" I asked

"Of course, of course, come along." He turned and retraced his steps, leading us along the path at a much faster pace. We followed and the sheep, seeing us pull away, broke into a trot. It was in this manner, a short time later, as the first big raindrops began to fall, that we turned off the track into a farmyard where a woman had just stacked a load of wood into her arms and turned to enter the house. She was startled, but a smile played about her lips as our unlikely group burst into her yard, but the smile became a look of frozen terror, as she, upon recognizing the sheep as her own, caught sight of the limp bundle in my arms. She shrieked, dropping her load of wood in the dust and ran across the yard.

"Vasilios!. Oh gods, no! Vasilios!" She looked into my eyes, pleadingly, her own eyes filling with tears. "Is he?�oh gods, tell me he isn't�?"

"He's alive, but he's badly hurt. He needs a healer right away." I told her, trying to sound reassuring.

She turned around a few times in the yard as if trying to think what to do, and then, seizing my wrist, pulled me toward the house. "Bring him inside. Quickly."

Four children, having come onto the porch upon hearing their mother cry out were watching with frightened faces, as we followed her into the house, two half-grown girls, one holding an infant and the other with a toddler, a grubby finger poked into his mouth, tucked behind her skirt

The room we entered was clean and tidy, but this was no time to worry about muddy boots. The woman led us to a bedroom alcove on the far side of the hearth, quickly stripping the quilt from the bed and gesturing for me to lay the boy down on the linens. She gently unwrapped the blanket and unfastened his cloak. The bandages about his torn leg were only lightly stained, a good sign that the worst of the bleeding was over. However, the splinted shin was beginning to swell.

I asked, "Is there a healer nearby? That leg needs attention quickly."

"In the village." She did not look up from tending to her son. "Is this your work?"

"Yes."

"You did good," she looked at me then, grateful. She was a short woman, a bit plump, with a pretty, careworn face and a soft smile.

The farmer spoke from the doorway. "I'll fetch him, Mileandra."

"No Barthas," the woman told him, "your mother will be anxious after you. Thank you for your help. Panagiota can go for the healer."

"If you're sure," the farmer was obviously reluctant to leave, but when she waved him away, he only said, "alright then, but I'll take your sheep to the paddock before I go. Good night, Mileandra, and good luck." He nodded at Iolaus and me and turned toward the door, threading his way through the children who had crowded in behind him.

"Panagiota," The woman was looking at the taller of her two daughters, "get your cloak; you must go to the village for Nikolaus."

"Is it far?" I asked. It was getting dark and the rain was falling hard.

"A ways, it's at the other end of the valley."

I exchanged a look with Iolaus, "Then let one of us go."

"Panagiota knows the way, there are several turns along the road and you may be delayed if you go wrong."

"Then let me go with her." That from Iolaus.

Mileandra straightened and gave him a long look. Iolaus met her eyes and gazed back candidly. The woman threw me a quick glance, and then looked back at Iolaus. Finally, she sighed. We did, after all, come to the aid of her injured son. Stranger or not, she apparently decided that her daughter would be safe enough in Iolaus' company and, truthfully, she did not appear comfortable about sending the child so far alone in the dark.

After they left, Mileandra briskly set about taking charge of the situation. She sent her younger daughter, whom she called Genia, out to gather up the spilled armload of wood, and then told her to prepare a meal for herself and the toddler. I watched Vasilios while she went to the kitchen to put a kettle of water on the fire and bring down her medicine box from a high shelf. While the water was heating, we carefully removed Vasilios' clothing, cutting away the hopelessly torn trousers which Mileandra assured me 'needed replacing' anyway. Any thought that Vasilios may never need another pair of trousers, was one that she was apparently unwilling to entertain. I was not so sure, the boy showed no sign of improvement. His pulse remained weak and unsteady, and he was as white as the sheet he was lying on. But I had learned from Iolaus long ago the power of positive thinking.

Leaving the broken bone for the healer, Mileandra turned her attention to the injured thigh, hissing as she uncovered the red, ragged gash. If it weren't treated carefully, it could very well become infected. She cleaned it gently, but thoroughly, and made a poultice of herbs and warm water, pressing it against the tear while I bandaged it.

The head wound was easy. Iolaus had already cleaned it, and the swelling had gone down considerably since we first found him. Mileandra gently smeared it with salve and left it to the open air to finish healing.

She tucked the boy into a thick quilt, and then beckoned me to follow her to the kitchen, where she seated me at the far end of the table so that I could look into the alcove and keep an eye on Vasilios while she, having decided I must be hungry, prepared a meal for me. I protested that it was not necessary, but she ignored me, plucking the infant from its cradle by the chimney and putting it to suckle, and with her free hand, setting out bread, fruit, meat and cheese. I offered to help, but she waved me away, as if I would only be a nuisance. Having learned early from my mother that a woman at work in her kitchen is not a woman to be trifled with, I sat dutifully in my chair, staying out from underfoot.

Genia, her eyes red from crying, was picking disconsolately at her own barely touched plate after having fed the toddler, who was drowsing, tied into his high chair. Her mother gave her a quick hug, and told her put the child to bed. With her eyes cast down shyly, lest she should inadvertently look at me, she hoisted the little fellow into her arms, and disappeared into the only other room in the house.

Mileandra brought a plate and eating utensils; her eyes never straying for long from the injured boy in the alcove, but she paused as she was pouring me a cup of water to drink with my meal and looked down as if suddenly recalling my presence. "I'm sorry," she said, "Here you have been so kind, and I haven't even asked your name."

This is the part I hate. The part where my new acquaintance stares at me, astonished, mouth agape, not knowing whether I'm lying, delusional, just kidding or that perhaps, I am, after all, the much ballyhooed son of Zeus, and gasps, "You're Hercules?" Usually Iolaus happily drops the bombshell, while I find something interesting to occupy my attention, but this time, I was on my own.

"My name is Hercules," I said trying not to cringe, and hoping against hope that this time I had met someone who had never heard of me, "and my friend is Io�"

But Mileandra's startled gasp drowned out the rest of my words. She did not disappoint; she was staring at me, slack-jawed, mouth poised as if to say something. I was afraid she might forget herself and drop the baby so I held out my arms in order to catch it.

Her astonishment seemed even more pronounced than the usual reaction to my identity and I was glad, now, that Iolaus was not present, for I thought I knew the reason.

On the other side of the mountains we had just crossed, there was a small town where we spent a night, and like many small towns, it boasted a resident artist. This man, Achilicus by name, often frequented the local tavern, and one day, short of pocket, had paid for his ale by drawing a mural upon the back wall for the amusement of the patrons. A mural that purported to be a life-size rendition of the legendary Hercules, but this Hercules was at least seven and a half feet tall, stretching from floor to ceiling, and four feet across with arms and legs like the gnarled trunks of enormous trees. A wild tangled mane of coal-black hair blew about his face in an imaginary wind and his lips were pulled back in a feral grin that I truly believe would be impossible for me to duplicate. This Hercules carried a massive club over one impossibly broad shoulder and except for the skin of the Nemean lion thrown over the other, he was stark naked. And as for that�well, let's just say everything was drawn in great detail and precise proportions.

The town was a likely trading place for this valley and even though Mileandra did not appear to be the sort of woman who frequented taverns, it was quite probable that, at some point, she had snuck a look at this dubious work of art through a window.

Iolaus, of course, took great delight in both the mural and my embarrassment, but even so, he reluctantly obeyed when I forbade him to mention my name. For the rest of the evening, he took his revenge by addressing me as Ares.

Her face as pink as I'm sure mine was, Mileandra laid the now sleeping baby back into the cradle. Genia returned and began tidying up the room, while her mother went to the alcove to sit by her brother's bedside. I finished eating, still feeling a little uncomfortable, and joined her. For the first time I wondered where her husband was until I remembered that Barthas had said she was widowed. Losing her son, too, would have been a crushing blow. My thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of the latch; Iolaus and Panagiota, windblown and wet, burst through the door followed by a slender middle-aged man.

"Nikolaus." Mileandra said, with obvious relief. The healer dropped his wet cloak on the nearest chair and went straight to his patient, almost elbowing me aside. He looked the boy over quickly, grunting his approval at what his mother and I had done, but when he examined the broken leg he frowned.

"Did you splint this?" he asked me. I nodded, hoping I hadn't done it all wrong and caused further damage."

But all he said was, "good job," unwound the wrappings and asked for hot water. He washed the blood and dirt from the boy's shin and examined it closely, finally pronouncing himself satisfied that properly set, the break would heal satisfactorily. Mileandra heaved a sigh of relief.

"Have you given him anything for the pain?" the healer asked her.

"No, I did not dare. He was so deeply unconscious," she answered.

"I think it will be safe to give him a mild draught now. I have to sew up the cut on his thigh, too, and that will be painful," he told her, patting her shoulder and handing her a packet of herbs to brew into a tea. "Don't worry, Mileandra, he is young and strong. He'll do, gods willing."

With Vasilios doused with poppy, Nikolaus completed his ministrations efficiently, first setting the broken bones into place held with linens stiffened with moistened wheat and then carefully stitching the torn thigh. Vasilios moaned softly but did not waken. The old healer then sat by the bedside sipping a cup while Mileandra began putting food back on the table, remembering that she had more guests to feed.

Finally Nikolaus rose and stretched. Vasilios' color was returning and his breathing more even. He had done all he could that night, he said, turning down an offer of a meal and a bed. He had other patients to attend to, and he took his leave, promising to return the next day.

Mileandra turned to Iolaus and me shyly, "You two will stay? At least for the night" she asked hopefully.

I looked around the room; in the short time we had been here, it had become familiar, welcoming. Maybe because it reminded me of my own home. But it was small and we would be very much in the way here. "Thank you," I said, "we could put up in the barn for a few days if you like. You'll need some help while your son is recuperating." Iolaus grinned and nodded his agreement, his mouth full of bread. Mileandra made exceptionally good bread.

"Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that," she protested. "You must be on your way home to your own families."

"You didn't ask, we're offering," I said, smiling, "and Iolaus and I, well, we are our family."

"Well, then, thank you." she said, gratefully, "Finish your supper, Iolaus. Panagiota can show you around when she goes out to bed down the animals and�oh, by the gods�" she stopped and clapped one hand over her mouth.

"What?" Iolaus and I both spoke at the same time. Panagiota half-rose from the table, looking distressed, and her mother stared at her mortified.

"We forgot all about Antigone."

"You have another child?" Iolaus asked, rising from the table, alarmed, "outside�in the rain?"

"No, no." Mileandra answered, quickly. "Antigone's our cow. She's tethered in the field behind the barn, poor thing. She must be frightened to death."

"I'll get her." Panagiota pulled on her wet cloak, and fetched a lantern that she lit with a twig from the fire.

"I'll go with you." Iolaus crammed one last biscuit in his mouth and followed her to the door.

I retrieved our damp blankets from the bedroom and gathered our belongings from where Iolaus had dropped them. "And I'll get us settled in the barn."

"Oh dear, you can't use those wet things. Leave them and I'll hang them by the fire overnight. I have plenty of extras." She threw open the lid of a trunk that sat in one corner of the room and started to pull out one blanket after another.

"Whoa," I said, after she had flung four heavy woolen coverlets into my arms, "that's enough. Iolaus and I are used to outside living and a barn will be a rare luxury."

"That's fine for you, young man," she snapped, "but Iolaus looks to be too old to be sleeping cold."

"You tell him that," I laughed uncomfortably. She was right; Iolaus should not be sleeping in the cold, but I would never dare say so.

Iolaus and Panagiota, beating against the wind and rain with the cow in tow reached the barn at the same time I did. Antigone was small, mottled brown, with soft eyes; frightened and mournful. She was also very pregnant.

"A little late in the season, isn't it?" I asked, eyeing the cow's swollen belly.

"Mother and F�father put her to Barthas' bull last fall, but it didn't take. When she came into season again later, they tried again and that time it did." Panagiota petted the cow gently to calm her and the creature nuzzled her gratefully. Iolaus helped her settle the creature into her stall, and then took the empty water bucket out to the well to fill.

I noticed how she stumbled over the word father, so I asked her gently. "Has your father been gone long?"

"He died of the fever in the spring." Panagiota leaned against the animal and rubbed her behind the ears. Antigone was quite recovered from her fright and quietly munching oats.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes were sad, making her look older than her years, which could have been no more than twelve. She was a pretty girl, slender, already taller than her mother, with long, thick hair the color of ripe wheat. Beneath her patched cloak, her red dress was neat and clean and nicely trimmed with bits of lace and colorful fabric. Her mother was apparently as good a seamstress as she was a cook. "Father saved for a year to get enough money to buy Antigone from Barthas. Mother always wanted a cow, said a proper farm should have one for the butter and cream. But they are so dear." She chuckled a little, remembering, "I think Barthas let father work off much of the cost. He's a very good neighbor."

Iolaus returned with the water and Panagiota shook away the sad memories becoming a lively, animated child again, insisting that she be allowed to give us a tour of the barn and introduce us to its residents while she did her evening chores. Evidently, she and Iolaus had become fast friends during their trip to the village, and they chattered away like old chums. Well I know how Iolaus has a way of doing that; he attracts children and animals like flowers attract bees. Even the cow was looking at him besottedly.

The barn was as tidy as the house, the faint animal odor a pungent counterpoint to the smell of new hay, grain and leather. It was built on a slope with a level beneath the one we were on, where the pigs, goats and sheep were housed. On this level one side of the barn was a chicken coop, fenced and gated on the inside, and with a small wooden door on the outside wall that opened onto the run. Panagiota slid through the gate with a basket of grain under her arm, clicking her tongue to call in the hens before she closed the outside door, although most of them were already inside out of the weather. A few hardy ones waddled in shaking the raindrops from their feathers.

We met Boreus, the plow horse, who could be won over with a carrot or two Panagiota told us, and Paleus, the donkey, who pulled the little cart to the village on market day. He preferred turnips.

Above us, three great hayracks rose to the ceiling. A lower platform, two steps above the plank floor served as storage area for baled hay, and bags of oats and grain. Its floor was covered with new straw and I had piled our belongings there. It was warm and inviting and seemed the perfect spot for us to set up housekeeping with even a hook in the ceiling where we could hang a lantern if we wished to have a light.

Panagiota led us down the ladder to the pens below. This level had a dirt floor and a double-wide door that stood open to the paddock. The animals had crowded inside out of the rain, milling about, bewildered. It was past the time they were usually bedded down, and they were confused and frightened. Panagiota closed the doors after counting noses to be sure they were all safe.

"Silly things," Panagiota scolded as we helped her shoo the pigs into their pen. The pig family was small, an aging sow and boar, and three half-grown piglets, what the family had kept out of the spring litter. "You'd think by now they would know where to go." The pigs grunted contentedly as settled down in the hay.

The sheep were next, bleating stupidly at the delay. Only the old ewe seemed unruffled, the black-faced ram was pacing nervously back and forth and hadn't taken his eyes off Iolaus since we arrived. Obviously, Iolaus' charms weren't working on him. Laughing, Panagiota caught the ram about the neck as he was about to illustrate his displeasure with life in general by charging at Iolaus, and with an expertise born of experience, she wheeled him in his tracks and, using his own momentum, pushed him into the pen. The ewe, with haughty grandeur, stalked in under her steam and the rest followed.

A small enclosure at the back was home to the three goats who were patiently waiting their turn. They were sweet-faced, pretty creatures with curly black and white coats and tufts of white whiskers under their chins. With a pile of hay, a bucket of scraps and fresh water, they were easily content.

Back on the ground floor, Panagiota took another lantern from a high shelf, lit it from her own and handed it to me.

"Don't burn down the barn," she said with a grin as she bid us good night. Solemnly, we assured her we'd be exceedingly careful and then watched as her lantern light bobbed across the yard in the rain and darkness toward little the house and its inviting firelit windows.

"Nice little family," Iolaus said.

"Very nice," I agreed.

We made a thick bed of hay and our borrowed blankets. It had been an eventful day and even I was tired. I put out the light and we settled down, too tired to talk, and listened to the sounds of the wind as it whistled around the corners of the barn, the rain pattering on the roof, the mutterings and gruntings of the animals settling down for the night as we drifted toward sleep. Antigone could still be heard munching in her nearby stall.

"Eating for two." Iolaus said and chuckled.

Our bed was comfortable, the barn cozy and warm. It felt good to be out of the weather on such a night. "Nice barn." I heard Iolaus say drowsily, as I drifted off to sleep. "Real nice barn." I did not awaken when the rain stopped and the wind died away; I slept soundly until the cock crowed, greeting the first thin streaks of gray that heralded the dawn of a clear, bright new day.

**

Our days settled into an easy rhythm. Vasilios' condition improved rapidly, easing a huge burden from our minds. There was much to be done on a farm with autumn approaching and although it was impossible to get a hoe in Iolaus' hands, he kept busy chopping wood to be stored for the winter, mending tools and harnesses, and of course, doing most of the hunting and fishing for the meat Mileandra would salt away for the days ahead when the snow in this mountainous valley would be too deep for hunting. Tomboyish Panagiota, so much like a young Iolaus, was adept at these pursuits, able to track game, read signs, and had an unerring woods sense. She took Iolaus to the best fishing holes, the biggest rabbit warrens, and the places in the forest where the deer liked to shelter.

It was left to me to do the work of tending the fields, keeping the weeds and varmints away from the ripening crops, harvesting those that were ready. But I didn't mind. Genia helped me with these tasks; she was as quiet and thoughtful as Panagiota was lively and vivacious. She had lost her shyness with me after the first few days, and although we talked little as we worked side by side in the fields, I sensed that she thought of me as her friend, and I felt honored for she was not a child to give her affections easily.

Our meals we took at the table with the family and they were lively ones, whether it was at breakfast as we each planned our day, our lunch break, or at dinner, relaxed, happy and tired, our work done, ready to talk and tell stories until bedtime. Iolaus' appetite, gone since his illness, returned, and he regained some of the weight he had lost.

On the first evening that Vasilios was well enough to hop to the table on a pair of new crutches, made for him by Iolaus, we were in a party mood. Mileandra baked honey cake for the occasion, and we lingered by the fireside long into the night. At the urging of the children, Iolaus and I told stories of our adventures, although mostly, I let Iolaus do it. He was better at it than I, embroidering the tales with bits of color and humor that left the children enrapt. Vasilios was shy and quiet like Genia, while Samuelus, who was three, was as exuberant as Panagiota. He was generally good and obedient though, and was allowed to stay up until his eyes began to droop.

The weeks went by quickly. Vasilios grew stronger each day hobbling about on his crutch doing whatever chores he was able. The winter larder was rapidly filling, the grain nearly ready for harvesting, the hay already cut, dried and ready to be stored in the racks. The family would soon be able to do without us, and if we left by the end of the fortnight, we could be in Corinth by solstice.

But Iolaus kept finding reasons to linger. Another fishing expedition, a patch on the roof, a loose hinge, and lastly, Antigone was nearing her time. It would be her first, and if the calf did not turn properly her delivery might be a difficult one. He had become very fond of that cow and she of him. Each night, before retiring, he would rub her ears and croon caressingly to her. He said it relaxed her. For her part, she seemed to look forward to this bedtime ritual, mooing lovingly in response to his voice.

Iolaus often points out to me that, lost in my own thoughts, I miss much of what is happening around me, but I hadn't overlooked Iolaus' growing attachment to this fatherless family. What I had failed to notice, however, was how fully that attachment was reciprocated until one morning when we were preparing to leave for the village market with the excess produce to sell or trade. The girls were in high spirits loading the donkey cart, and Vasilios, quite recovered and being allowed his first excursion from the farm, was on the wagon seat, flushed with excitement. Iolaus was hitching Paleus into the traces with Samuelus hanging about his knees, wanting attention. Mileandra came through the door with the baby in her arms and paused, surveying the little scene, and as her eyes came to rest on Iolaus, she smiled softly. Tonight, I thought, I'll have to tell him to turn down the glow.

But would it be a bad thing, I reflected, trailing behind the rest on the way to the market? Samuelus, too small to walk the entire distance, was riding on Iolaus' shoulders while Mileandra with the baby cradled in one arm walked beside them. From the cart, Vasilios chatted with his sisters as they skipped along the roadway. A happy family on the way to market. A perfect setting for Iolaus, an ideal solution to the problem of the coming day when he would no longer be able to travel at my side.

I knew Iolaus loved our life on the road, but here was the one thing he had missed out on, a family to love and be loved by. It would be selfish of me to want to take him away if he desired to stay, although I knew that if I asked, he would go with me no matter what. If he were to stay, then I would have to stay also if only to be close when the time came to take him to Aphrodite. Perhaps I would become Uncle Herc and live in a little room attached to the house. The idea was not without appeal.

I tried to voice some of this to him that night after having extinguished the lantern and crawled in the dark over bags of corn to reach our bed. Our little room was filling up with sacks of grain both for the house and for the animals' winter feed; the hayracks above were groaning under their heavy burdens, and the air hung heavy with the scents of warm earth and ripened crops. As the nights outside cooled, our crowded little home became just that much more snug.

I don't know what I expected him to say. Perhaps I had secretly hoped that he would just tell me not to be so silly, that we would be on our way to Corinth as soon as the birthing was done. That he had no intention of making his stay here a permanent one.

But what he did say was, "Are you sure, Herc?" I could not see his face in the dark, but his voice was hesitant and uncertain.

"I'm sure." I managed to gulp.

He lay quietly in the dark for quite some time and then he began talk. "Mileandra and the kids�well, I never thought�I mean. They seem to like me a lot and they could use my help and well�I thought maybe Mileandra would be willing to have me. I just not sure if I can give up�."

"Do you love her?" I asked

He seemed startled by the question and went thoughtfully silent. "I guess, in a way," he said finally. "I mean, not the way I thought love was supposed to be when I was young, but she's kind and good and I know she would make me a good wi�wife, and I would try to be a good husband and�"

He went on in this vein for quite some time, trying to sort his feeling by voicing them to me, but I was only half listening. Iolaus had stumbled over the word wife and my heart had sunk upon hearing it. Somehow that made it very real. If he decided to ask Mileandra to marry him, there would be no going back for him even if he should discover later that he had made a mistake. Iolaus would keep his promise always.

The days slid by; pleasant, busy days, but Iolaus said no more about his plans, and inevitably, the morning came when there was very little work that needed to be done. Antigone grazed contentedly in the pasture, showing no sign of imminent birth, and we all agreed a day off was just what we needed. Iolaus and Panagiota went to hitch up the donkey cart while Mileandra and Genia packed a lunch, and I did the morning chores.

It was a glorious autumn day, the land, a deep, shadowy green, the sunlight, pale gold, and the air, soft and sweet. Our destination was a meadow by the pool below the waterfall; a good place for swimming, and the fishing was excellent. It was a charming even romantic spot and privately, I thought that there, Iolaus might work up the nerve to propose marriage to Mileandra.

Along the way, we met Barthas and his mother in a horse-drawn wagon just turning out of the lane that led to their farm with the same destination in mind. We traveled together chatting amiably about crops, livestock, the weather, and soon arrived at the pond. Barthas was, as Panagiota had told us, a very good neighbor, showing up at the farm several times a week to be sure everything was going well, and that Mileandra and the children would be amply provided for in the coming months. He was also a widower, and I pretended I didn't see the calculating looks he gave Iolaus and Mileandra whenever he saw them together. But I was watchful, out of old habit, I guess.

The afternoon passed pleasantly. We fished and played chase in the meadow with the children before lunch. Vasilios could now walk, even run a bit, without the aid of his crutch and with only a slight limp. Barthas' mother sat in the shade cooing to the baby who, though always good-temper, was being particularly sweet that day. After the game, a tired Samuelus crawled into his mother's lap for a nap while the older children went swimming. The day was warm, lunch had made me sleepy, and I lay drowsing under a shady tree, watching Iolaus and Barthas who were sitting together on the rocks by the side of the pool supervising the swimmers and engaged in earnest conversation. As sleepy as I was, that little worry bug that always wriggled in the furthest recesses of my mind where Iolaus was concerned, kept my eyes from closing entirely and I watched them from half-shuttered lids.

The sun was going down when Mileandra called in the swimmers and set the rest of us packing up the carts. On the way home, Iolaus walked quietly alongside the cart with Samuelus on his shoulders, his thoughts seemingly far away, until we reached the path that led to Barthas' farm where we paused to say goodnight. Barthas made a special point of saying good night to Iolaus and the look he gave him seemed both sympathetic and thoughtful. I looked a question at Iolaus, but he only settled Samuelus more comfortably on his perch, and walked away down the road without a word.

That night when I entered the barn after washing up at the well, Iolaus was standing beside Antigone, rubbing her swollen flank absently while she munched her evening feed.

"Won't be long now," he told me.

"Okay, Iolaus. What's up?" I was not planning on being put off any longer.

He sighed and led the way into our room, where he flopped down onto the bed and sat cross-legged, his chin in his hands. I hung the lantern on its hook, sat down beside him and waited.

Finally he blew out a lungful of air and looked through the gaps in the boards toward the stall where the cow still munched hay. "She'll be dropping her calf any day now, and then we'd better get moving if we plan on crossing the mountains before the snows come."

He caught me off-guard, and I didn't know what to say or think. First the selfish joy of being on the road with him again, and then the regret that apparently his plans were not going to work out. Perhaps he had proposed to her today and had been turned down. But I rather suspected it had something to do with the conversation between him and Barthas. "Was it something Barthas said?" I asked, prodding.

Iolaus sighed. "Barthas wants to marry her." He paused, and then went on. "His wife died in childbirth many years ago and his only surviving kid, a son, wasn't interested in farming, went off to be a soldier and got killed in some lousy war or other."

"I'm sorry for him,' I said, "but that's not reason enough for you to clear the deck. Surely the choice is hers?"

"There's more." Iolaus looked at me. "This farm is small and Mileandra has five children to support."

"Which she can do very nicely with our help." I pointed out.

"Now, sure. But when the children are grown? Barthas' farm is ten times the size of this one, and he has no one to leave it to but a brother in Thrace who doesn't want it. If he marries Mileandra, he will adopt the kids and make Vasilios his heir. They could be very well off someday. I can't take that away from them."

"Still, if it's you she loves�" I protested. "Marriage for profit seems so�so�"

"Unromantic? Herc!" Iolaus laughed with some of his old humor glinting in his eyes. "I'm supposed to be the romantic one. You're the sensible one. Remember? So when did we switch roles?"

I grinned, glad that Iolaus seemed to be taking this well, "I'm not sure. Must have snuck in when we weren't paying attention." But I didn't want to see Iolaus throw away something precious even for a noble cause. "Are you sure about this?"

"Barthas belongs here, Herc. So does Mileandra. They are part of a community that has survived in these hills for generations. I'm a wanderer, passing through. You know that as much as I would enjoy life here, and that I would keep the promises I made, I would always be looking longingly at those distant mountains. Yeah, I'm sure, Herc."

"You will have to talk to Mileandra, won't you? I mean, if anything has been said between you�?"

"Nothing's been said�not in so many words. But you're right. I may have given her some reason to believe she can expect me to stick around. I'll talk to her tomorrow. Now let's get some sleep."

But there wasn't going to be much sleep for anybody that night. We had no more than drifted off when Antigone began to thrash in her stall, kicking over her water bucket with a clang and driving a hoof into the wall hard enough to crack the wooden planking.

Iolaus rolled to his feet, instantly awake and ran to her side. She was bawling loudly, her normally soft brown eyes were rimmed with white, and wide with fear and pain.

"Get Mileandra," Iolaus said quietly and I pulled on my clothes and ran for the house. When I returned with a disheveled Mileandra and Panagiota in tow, he was kneading Antigone's flank and crooning to her gently. This seemed to soothe the poor creature and some of the fear had receded from her eyes.

Panagiota took over the task of soothing the cow and I stood nearby, ready to help if needed, but with no clue as to what I might be useful for, while Iolaus and Mileandra examined the frightened animal. As they had feared, the little calf had not turned properly and would need help to enter the birth canal. My hands were too large for this, and Mileandra might lack the needed strength. It would take much too long to fetch Barthas, so the task fell to Iolaus.

He was as gentle as he could be, but Antigone was in a great deal of pain and it was all Mileandra and I could do to keep her steady. It seemed to take forever. The lantern guttered and Panagiota quickly lit another; its glow glistening from the sweat on Iolaus' forehead as he carefully guided the calf into position. Finally, he sighed with relief as he felt the normal contractions taking over, pulling the calf closer to the outside world with every spasm. He sat back on his heels and let nature do the rest.

When the calf finally emerged and slid gently into Iolaus' arms, it appeared that all our efforts had been in vain. It was limp and unresponsive, but Iolaus, quickly pulling aside the membrane that encased it, believed that he could feel a slight pulse. He cleaned the little newborn as best he could, wrapped it in a blanket, and after settling down against the side of the stall, cradled it against his chest, letting the steady beat of his heart soothe it, while he gently rubbed its flanks. Antigone, was breathing heavily, and rocking to and fro. Panagiota and her mother covered her with blankets to keep her warm, and were caressing her, talking to her softly. The loss of the calf would be a sad thing, but the loss of the precious cow would have a huge impact on her small farm holding. Feeling a bit useless, I pottered about cleaning up the stall and putting everything to rights.

But finally, Mileandra and an exhausted Panagiota were satisfied that the cow would recover, and went back to get some much needed sleep, knowing that all that could be done for the calf was being done. Iolaus was still cradling it; rubbing it and humming softly.

The cock crowed from the roof of the coop to greet the coming dawn. It was still dark in the barn, only the glow of the lantern and the faint, gray light that could be seen in the window high above the hayracks chasing away the shadows. I stretched out on a pile of straw near the stall to keep Iolaus company, but he was not in a talking mood. He was singing softly to the little calf while rocking it in his arms, and I recognized a tune that my mother used to sing to us when we were small.

I watched him drowsily, sitting against that post with the calf in his arms, the silvery hair gold again in the lamplight, stripping away the years and leaving a boy in their place. The boy with the dazzling smile and the impish nature whom had I followed joyfully into manhood, and who lights my life every single day. I couldn't imagine my life without him, and although the gods no longer listen, I thanked them anyway for the gift of him.

And suddenly I felt a surge of utter happiness and peace. There, with the first rays of the morning sun lighting the haystacks and peering shyly through the small door of the chicken run, with Iolaus sitting nearby crooning sweetly to a newly born creature, in a barn bursting with the fruits of a bountiful harvest, I knew the rare contentment of just being alive. There would be troubles and worries to face on future days, and sadness and loss were the lot of mankind, but nothing could take the joy of that moment away from me. It was mine forever.

I was not aware that I had drifted into a doze until I awoke to a disturbance. The little calf was struggling to get out of Iolaus' arms, and he stood it carefully on its wobbly legs, supporting it while guiding it to its mother's side. Antigone accepted it eagerly, giving it access to her udder, and after a few tentative licks, it was soon slurping greedily at her milk. Iolaus sat back to watch, as proud as any parent, and grinned up at me.

Two days later we were on the road. He never told me what passed between him and Mileandra. When she came to the door that last morning with an bulging pack of provisions for our journey, and to bid us goodbye, she was smiling, but her eyes were suspiciously pink. It was hard to say goodbye to the children, we had become a family of sorts. Tears stood in Genia's eyes as she hugged us each in turn and Samuelus hid his face in his mother's skirts. Panagiota squeezed Iolaus fiercely for a long moment before giving me a warm hug, and she stood at the gate watching us until after a final wave, we rounded a bend in the road and could see her no more.

Part Three

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