Anam Cara

by Arianna18

No summary available

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Having 'retired' for all of about thirty seconds, Hercules and Iolaus laughed as they set off across the sandy plain, wondering what the world and the Fates would throw at them next. Taking on the Titans had been invigorating, to say the least, and Hera was, well, Hera. But, at least she cared for her grandson, Evander. It proved that there was some decency locked inside her shriveled soul. As they wandered, Hercules wondered what direction to head. The smile that had played at his lips since Iolaus had jumped up so eagerly to follow him, wherever he led, faltered as he thought about it. He'd had his friend back at his side for almost six months now, and that thought brought the flutter of wonder and immeasurable gratitude deep in his chest that came whenever he remembered consciously that Iolaus was there, miraculously there.

Which was about every other minute or so.

He'd never forget the moment of pulling Iolaus out of that small pool, gripping a hand in response to a voice he'd longed to hear but had thought was lost to him forever. Or, that moment when Michael had 'sentenced' Iolaus to a life at Hercules' side. He'd thought he'd misheard, the words so sternly given with such a grim look, but then Michael had smiled and the light of joy had broken over Iolaus' face. His knees weak, thinking he might actually collapse from relief, his heart bursting with unbridled joy, he'd found himself hugging Iolaus and swinging his best friend through the air in that village square.

But, his friend's 'resurrection' hadn't all gone smoothly. Iolaus had wanted to go to Thrace, perhaps because it was as a result of their trip to Thrace years ago that they had restored their partnership to what it had once been in their youth. It really didn't matter to them where they went…what mattered was that they were traveling together again, backing one another up, enjoying the hours, days, months and hopefully years more of a friendship that transcended everything else in their lives. Unfortunately, the journey and arrival was not all Iolaus had hoped. Oh, friends had been overjoyed to see him, once they recovered from the shock of seeing him alive once more. Lydia, especially, had darn near fainted dead away before tears of joy filled her eyes and she launched herself into his arms, laughing almost hysterically in the relief of seeing him again. But…Iolaus' face was not entirely his own anymore. There'd been many people, far too many, who saw a demon when they looked upon him, his open, guileless expression bringing back terrible memories, horrific events.

Though he'd tried to shrug it off, saying it was only to be expected, Hercules had seen that his buddy had been staggered by the reactions his presence provoked. Shouting and recriminations, threats and assaults became a way of life, too many people never seeming able to accept that it was Iolaus, not Dahok, who had returned. The pathological fear and soul deep anger of the strangers they encountered hurt Iolaus deeply, tarnishing his golden joy at being back in the world and further bruising a heart that had already borne too much pain.

Hercules had been furious with the people who struck out at his friend, whirling, ready to engage in battle on Iolaus' behalf, fiercely protective of his partner's honour and safety, both physical and emotional. But, inevitably, he found Iolaus between himself and the transgressors, trying to calm him and protect them. It became ridiculous after a while, predictable, discouraging and heartbreaking. So, the man who loved nothing more than to regale a crowd in a tavern with wild stories, to sing and dance at festivals, began to stiffen whenever they approached settlements or towns, preparing for another round of shame that Hercules told him was not his to bear, another bout of rejection and pain however much he tried to hide it, bury it, deny it. Though neither of them said it, they were also both afraid that the time would inevitably come when Hercules would lose his control in his anger and seriously injure someone essentially innocent but for their overwhelming fear of the demon Dahok.

So, after a couple of weeks, they'd begun to avoid villages and cities, had even left the country for a while, traveling to Egypt. Iolaus kept saying, to himself as much as to Hercules, that it was only a matter of time, that people would eventually stop confusing him with the horror that was Dahok. But, how much time was it going to take? There were moments when Hercules saw the shattered look in his best friend's eyes and wondered if Iolaus regretted coming back. His own eyes darkening at that thought, Hercules cursed silently to himself…Iolaus shouldn't have had to die in the first place, should never have been at risk of that foul demon, and having risked his soul to save humanity, he should be honoured and celebrated as the hero he was, not treated like…like a pariah. It sickened the demigod and infuriated him, and left him feeling absolutely helpless. In truth, this intolerable situation had been what had led Hercules to suggest they retire. But that wasn't a solution. They'd spent the whole of their lives on the side of justice, fighting evil where they found it, defending the innocent. What else could they do? What else would they even want to do?

So, here they were, traveling again to wherever their feet took them.

"You okay, Herc?" Iolaus asked softly, having noticed his friend's body stiffen at his silent thoughts, the muscles taut, his face grim and dark with anger…and something that almost looked like pain. At the sound of his voice, he could see Hercules consciously force himself to relax as he shook his head mutely, his face clearing, the clouded look in his eyes replaced by studied innocence and the warrior sighed to himself. He'd grown used to these silent moods over the last few months and had ignored them at first. Iolaus knew that Hercules was as hurt as he was by the reaction of the people they met, but he'd figured talking about it wouldn't make it either go away or get easier, and he'd really hoped that word would spread, that strangers would stop looking at him like he was some kind of monster. But…time hadn't seemed to make much difference and Iolaus had found himself wondering if it ever would. He couldn't blame people for their anger or horror when they saw his face. Having known Dahok intimately, having been a hostage to all the demon had done, Iolaus could understand only too well the hate he saw in eyes that met his own.

Like acid, the hate ate away at his soul.

Oh, he knew that what Dahok had done wasn't his doing, but he felt responsible nonetheless. There should have been a way that he could have defeated the monster, held him off. There should have been a means of destroying him before he'd spewed his evil over Greece. It had been his body, his face, his hands that had been used to wage death, to intimidate and mutilate, to murder…his body had been made a predator, stalking the earth, destroying the innocent. The knowledge, the memories, weren't easy to live with and haunted him when he slept, probably always would. It didn't surprise Iolaus to think that Hercules was haunted as well. He couldn't begin to imagine how he'd feel if their situations had been reversed…if it had been Herc who had died in his arms, only to reappear as a monster…and then die again, seemingly irrevocably. The very thought of it tore Iolaus up inside, making his heart clench, his chest ache with breathlessness. They'd both suffered…and were suffering still.

Lost in their thoughts, and their sense of helplessness, they traveled silently as the afternoon wore on. The fact that they were both bruised and battered by their latest escapade, exhausted by having to overcome the three Titans, didn't help either of their moods. Both knew they needed to talk about the situation that was wearing them down, but neither felt ready to begin what each anticipated would be a difficult discussion. Still, putting it off, hoping it would get better, didn't seem like an acceptable solution anymore…because nothing was getting better.

As Helios began his descent in the west, Iolaus came back to their surroundings, pushing his uncomfortable thoughts aside as he looked around to figure out just exactly where they were. They'd left the dry plain behind and were now rambling along a valley of low, forested hills. As his gaze raked the area around them, he picked up the glint of light on water amidst a copse of trees.

"Hey, Herc…that looks like a reasonable place to camp tonight," he suggested, pointing to the northwest. Shading his eyes, the demigod nodded and they shifted direction, arriving at the small, narrow lake about fifteen minutes later. Iolaus pulled his pack from his shoulder and rummaged for his fishing line and a hook, while Hercules moved beneath the trees seeking deadwood for a fire. By the time the demigod had set up their camp, his best friend was back with two good sized fish wrapped in leaves along with the sticks he'd picked up to skewer them for cooking over the hungry flames. While Iolaus prepared the fish and set them over the fire, Hercules took their waterskins to the lake, kneeling to fill them.

It was quiet and very peaceful, the surface of the water glowing a soft pink in the dying light of the sun. There was a slight breeze in the trees that shaded the shoreline, warm at this time of the year, but fresh and scented by the pines further up the long hills. The sky was splashed with scarlet low in the west, fading through riotous to increasingly gentle colours until the vastness of space became a deep indigo in the east. A fish jumped with a plopping sound farther out in the lake, sending widening circles lazily toward the shore.

'Why can't our lives always be this tranquil?' Hercules wondered to himself, feeling some of his tension abate. But, then he smiled in self-deprecation. 'Because the boredom would drive us crazy,' he allowed. He and Iolaus were warriors, for the good he always hoped, but warriors nonetheless. While they enjoyed their occasional quiet moments, a lifetime of them would not be fulfilling and he knew that, for all that he also regretted the dangers their lives presented. Still, the peace of the moment had refreshed him, allowing him to let go of the anger and frustration while he reflected on what really mattered most to him.

He had gotten his miracle.

Iolaus had been restored to him after he'd long given up hope of that possibility. Whatever else happened, wherever their paths might lead, Iolaus' presence in his life was his foundation and was all he ever honestly needed to be truly happy. Standing, he took a deep breath of the clear evening air, then looked back over his shoulder at his best friend who was crouched over the fire downwind of the thin curl of smoke, watching over the fish as they cooked, sprinkling them with herbs he carried in his pack. Turning, the demigod ambled back to join Iolaus, settling down by the fire as he laid the waterskins between them.

Hercules could see the tranquility of the lake and the simple task of cooking their meal had also helped to relax his friend, the lines of tension between Iolaus' brows having smoothed out, his muscles less rigid. Iolaus smiled softly as he handed Herc's meal to him, and settled back to enjoy his own, blowing on the hot flesh to cool it before taking his first nibble.

Less impatient by nature, Hercules simply held the short stake with his charbroiled fish loosely, waiting for it to cool as he gazed into the flames. "We have to talk about it eventually," he said quietly, shifting his gaze to Iolaus, who looked up, then back at his meal as he shrugged, then nodded.

"I guess," the hunter replied unenthusiastically, then blew again on his meal.

"Do you want to start?" the demigod asked, grinning quizzically, one brow raised under the bangs that fell over his face.

"Nope," Iolaus replied, daring to nibble then frowning with impatience as he burned his lip and tongue. He looked up at Hercules, his eyes a little shadowed, but he grinned as he continued, belying his quick denial, "I know we're both disappointed that I'm not as invisible as I used to be…."

"Hey!" protested Hercules, shaking his head and raising one hand, "I never liked the way people didn't seem to notice you…."

"Yeah, I know," Iolaus accepted with a diffident shrug, "But that was easier than the way people react now." Sighing, he lowered his fish, his arm resting on his crossed legs as he continued, "I didn't expect the hostility, and I should have, I guess. But, I'd been…gone…almost two years. I guess I hoped people would forget, would see me as me…not…"

"I know," Hercules murmured, frowning a little with empathetic concern, his eyes flashing with remembered loss and grief. Iolaus hadn't been 'gone', he'd been dead. Lowering his eyes to the fire, he asked the question that had been increasingly haunting him for more than the past month. "Are you sorry you came back?"

"NO!" his friend exclaimed, surprised by the question, not having expected it at all. "How can you even ask that, Herc?"

Rolling his shoulders a little uncomfortably, not meeting his friend's eyes except for a quick glance up and then away again, Hercules replied, "Well…you've never said much about what it was like, beyond what you told me that first day. When you came back, you never expected to be staying…and, well, I wondered if maybe you missed being a Guardian, missed the 'bliss' in that place of Light."

Iolaus shook his head as he again nibbled on his meal and took the moment to think about his response. Swallowing, he replied, his voice low but intense, "Herc, I didn't want to go in the first place and if they'd've let me come back, like I begged for a long time to do, I'd've been here a lot sooner. Don't get me wrong, the Light is…well, beyond my words to describe. It's amazing, and full of promise. Love permeates your being, and you feel a complete sense of rightness at being there, and such acceptance…no, more than acceptance, a rejoicing in your presence, that you exist at all. It's beautiful, like this," he continued, waving around them, "only the colours are richer, deeper, clearer somehow, the air sweet and crisp…you feel strong there, invincible, completely well, exhilarated even. Everyone there is always glad to see you, eager to help with whatever task is at hand, whether it's to teach and guide or paint the sunset sky. It is pure, unadulterated joy…"

Iolaus paused and took in Hercules' posture and expression, the hunched shoulders and look of sadness and guilt at having been instrumental in drawing him back from such bliss, then continued, his voice trembling with sincerity, "And I was absolutely miserable, all the time, every single moment, though I tried to let go, tried to be grateful for the love and the opportunity to serve, to still be useful in some measure… completely, utterly miserable. It definitely took the edge off the perfection of bliss for the others around me because they couldn't understand what I was feeling, how I couldn't feel the peace they felt, the joy. I felt bad about that, but I just couldn't help it. I hated it…hated being there."

Startled, Hercules jerked his gaze back to Iolaus', saw the passionate intensity in those clear, candid eyes and tried unconsciously to lighten the moment, smiling a little tentatively as he offered, "Because there weren't any women?"

Unable to resist, recalling his litany of what had it had been like in that strange other place just before 'War' had almost ridden them down months ago, Iolaus laughed and shook his head. "No, not because of that," he chuckled warmly, a teasing glint in his eyes as he continued, "I wasn't exactly honest with you about that. There were women, all of them beautiful inside and out…but I wasn't miserable because of anything to do with the place itself." Sobering, almost shy, he looked away and then back as he studied his best friend. "Herc…I was miserable because you weren't there and I wasn't here. I felt as if I was incomplete, like I was torn apart, not whole. I was miserable because I missed you so damned much I couldn't stand it, and I guess, I was worried about you. Every time I checked in on you after Sumeria, you were doing something stupid or reckless…as if you didn't care if you lived or died…as if you'd forgotten how much you matter to people, how important your life is…" Iolaus was talking faster, gesturing in his agitation with the memories, the feelings they provoked, "…and there was no one there to pull you out of it. You wouldn't let anyone close, not until Morrigan because she and her daughter needed you, and even then, you didn't really want her help or support. There was no one to back you up…and it terrified me. For a long time, after I went into the Light, I…I didn't check. I guess I was hoping you were fine. But, then when I heard what was going down, and decided I needed to warn you, it looked like you were still as miserable as I was. I couldn't wait to get back! So, no, I have no regrets about coming back and never will have, no matter what. This is where I belong, with you. I think Michael and the Light finally understood that and forgave me for my betrayal…because," his voice cracked a little and he had to take a breath to continue, saying words rarely said between them, though the truth of those words was what bonded them together, "because that betrayal was grounded in the love I feel for you and that's something they really do understand."

Hercules' eyes had misted as Iolaus had spoken, a huge lump forming in his throat at his best friend's words. To give up so much, to feel it inadequate…for him, all for him, made Hercules feel humble, his chest full, his heart aching with the immensity of his gratitude for the friendship, the depth of love that matched his own for Iolaus. Blinking, he swallowed and took a deep breath and then another, as Iolaus propped his spitted fish against the stones around the fire and moved to grip his shoulder. "I mean it, Herc…for me, paradise is anywhere you are. I don't want you to ever think different, or wonder if somehow you've cost me the experience of living in 'bliss'…so, no guilt about this, no grief about what you think I've given up, okay? Being sent back to you was the greatest blessing…" but he couldn't continue, his voice cracking with the intensity of the emotion he felt.

Hercules turned and pulled Iolaus into a tight hug, his heart pounding as if he'd run a long, hard race and won the most meaningful prize anyone could ever bestow upon him. Blinking to clear his eyes, sniffing as he swallowed, he whispered brokenly, "I missed you so much…I was so lost…gods, Iolaus…I'll die before I let you go again…"

Iolaus continued to hug his friend tightly, reassuring him with his presence that he wasn't going anywhere. When he felt Hercules relax, the hunter pulled away, squatting on his heels as he studied Hercules intently, reflecting on his friend's words. "That's something else we've never talked about, and it needs to be sorted out," Iolaus said quietly.

"What?" the demigod asked, honestly confused, not sure what Iolaus was referring to.

"Were you crazy? First, you take off in Nebula's ship, cursing the Fates and daring them to kill you…then you take on any bad guy you can find without the least thought of self-preservation…and then, gods, Herc, what in Tartarus did you think you were doing, jumping up and grabbing Death like that? Rolling off the precipice with him?" Iolaus exclaimed, his tone stern, even outraged. "Herc…what was that about? You died to save someone who was already dead! I appreciated the gesture, buddy, but I was not happy about it, you know what I'm saying?"

His jaw tightening, Hercules looked away, remembering those desperate weeks and months of aching, empty hopelessness and a grief that had consumed everything but the guilt that ripped away at his soul…and the terrifying moments after he'd believed he'd finally gotten Iolaus back only to face the prospect of losing him again, knowing they had lost, that there was no way he could prevail over Michael, the Archangel and the four horsemen, knowing Iolaus was about to be taken from him again. His face was stark with the pain of remembrance, and the knowledge that he just couldn't ever face that reality, couldn't contemplate seeing his best friend dead again. In that moment, as Death had charged toward Iolaus, with Michael's orders that the traitor be killed first ringing in the air, Hercules had accepted without reservation or pause that he'd far rather die himself than hold Iolaus' broken and lifeless body in his arms one more time.

The silence stretched between them, while Hercules stared into the flames, then he turned his gaze on Iolaus, his eyes reflecting the torture his soul had felt, unshed tears glittering in the flickering light of the fire, as he replied hoarsely, "'Crazy?' Yeah, I guess that's one word for all that I felt. Iolaus…" His voice cracked, and he had to blink rapidly and swallow hard as he pushed trembling hands through his hair. "Iolaus…I'm not me without you. I don't how to…to be whole, without you. I do know that I don't ever want to go through any of that ever again. I know," he said, holding up his hands when Iolaus was about to speak, "I know…you're mortal. You're going to die and stay dead some day. But, I don't want to be here when that happens. As selfish as it may be, I can't face that again. Please don't expect me to. So, no I couldn't just stand there and watch Death claim you," Hercules almost growled. "I can't face losing you again, not ever…."

Sighing, Iolaus sat back, his arms crossed over his raised knees as he banged his forehead against his forearms with a kind of slow, frustrated resignation. What could he say? How could he really protest or demand that Hercules not do something so suicidal again? Herc wouldn't listen, he knew that. No more than he'd listen himself if Hercules made such a demand of him. They'd been over this ground, time and again, circling, going nowhere. It was irresolvable. It was who and what they were. Either would die to protect the other in a heartbeat, with no regret or even thought. It was an instinctive gift, from one soul to another, given with love. And, as Herc had just so eloquently pointed out, it was easier to be the one who died…easier to not to be the one who was left, the one to have to suffer the loss of the other. As the full meaning of Hercules' words washed over him, Iolaus had to cover his eyes and bite back a sob. How could he do it? How could he ever conceive of Hercules being the one to leave him?

That wasn't the way it was supposed to go…wasn't the way he'd imagined his life…and his death…to be.

Finally, straightening his back, Iolaus sniffed and nodded. He might not be worth the sacrifice but he'd be damned if he could figure out how to convince Hercules of that fact. Having some sense of what his loss had meant to Hercules, how his best friend had felt, in every sense what he knew he'd feel himself if that terrible loss ever came to be, he murmured, "I never thanked you for what you did, and I should have. Your sacrifice got me back, saved my life in a way I never thought would ever again be possible."

Hercules swallowed and nodded tightly, glancing at his friend as he said, "I'd do it again…"

"I know," sighed Iolaus as he looked up at the stars. "I know, and that scares me."

"No more than what you risk scares me," the demigod countered, unrepentant.

Smiling then, Iolaus shook his head as he looked back at this friend, holding Herc's eyes with his own. "Well, then, I guess there's only one answer to this dilemma," he replied, a hint of laughter in his voice, though his eyes remained serious. "We're going to have to get our act together so that either neither of us ever gets killed, or that we arrange to go at the same time…back to back, like we always said when we were kids…but I don't think we realized then how true we both need those words to be. Nothing else seems the least bit acceptable."

Grinning in response, Hercules reached out and clasped the arm his best friend held out toward him. "Deal," he agreed.

It wasn't really a solution, and they both knew it. Their lives were too unpredictable, the dangers too varied and dire, but they'd found an uneasy truce…an acknowledgement that further discussion of the futility of one dying to save the other was pointless because death itself would only leave the survivor with a different, and deeper, pain from which there would be no recovery this side of Elysium or the Light.

It was a relief of a sort to admit it and leave off the lifelong conversation about the risks, and the fears they each held for the well being of the other. Finally, they had come to accept what had always been true. They had no choice but to let the Fates decide who would suffer death…and who would suffer life.

Shifting back around the fire to pick up his abandoned fish, retreating from the emotionalism of the moment, trying for normalcy, Iolaus asked in as light a tone as he could manage, "So, is that it? Or did you want to talk about something else?" Though he no longer felt any appetite, he forced himself to take a healthy bite and chewed with determined deliberation as he waited for Hercules' response.

Picking at his own meal, the demigod frowned thoughtfully as he reflected on their conversation. The good news was Iolaus had no regrets about being back. The bad news was that didn't change the reality that people saw a monster when they looked at him. Shrugging, he looked up and asked, "Iolaus, what are we going to do about how people treat you?"

Blowing out a breath, the hunter shook his head. "Damned if I know," he replied. "I'd really hoped they'd get over it by now, you know. That word would get around that it's me, not him, but it doesn't seem to matter to people who feel such fear when they see me that they can't stand it. I guess we just have to give it more time. It's not their fault…what he did, Herc…" Iolaus' voice trailed away, an expression of sorrow and profound regret settling on his features.

The demigod frowned in concern at the look on Iolaus' face, his own heart twisting at the pain he saw there. Sighing, he looked away and then back down at the fish in his hands. "Maybe…maybe we need to go away again, for a while. Someplace where nobody has even heard of Dahok," Hercules mused as he absently lifted a morsel of fish and chewed thoughtfully.

"Go away?" Iolaus repeated, shocked. "But…Greece needs you here. You were already gone so long…"

"And Greece survived," Hercules pointed out, his tone as calm and reasonable as he could make it. "You don't deserve what's happening and I can't stand to see what it does to you every time we wander into some village or town. It's not fair, not right…."

"But," Iolaus began to protest only to be cut off.

"Think about it," Hercules urged, warming to the idea. "Isn't there someplace in this world that you haven't seen and would like to see? Or some place you've been and would like to see again? We haven't had a real holiday in…well, ever actually. Why couldn't we just go some place else, be tourists for a while?"

Iolaus tilted his head, one brow quirked under the curls that tumbled over his forehead, glinting in the fire's light, as he considered Hercules' suggestion while he chewed on the fish. Why couldn't they go away, for a while if not forever? He couldn't deny it would be a relief to meet strangers and not see their eyes widen with horror and terror. If he could go anywhere, where would it be? "You sure about this?" he demanded, darting a look back at his best friend.

"Yes…the more I think about it, the more I think that's what we should do," Hercules replied with a decisive nod.

Tossing the remains of his unwanted meal away, Iolaus sat back, wondering where in the world he'd like to be if he could be anywhere. Though he treasured his experiences in the east, and had learned many valuable lessons there, it did not draw him back. Egypt was too barren, too structured and formal a culture to appeal to him and his limited experience in Italy didn't really leave him with warm feelings. It was a lot like Greece actually, except for the Romans…and he'd seen enough of them to convince him he didn't want to vacation in their home territory. Turning his head, he gazed at Hercules speculatively, wondering if Herc would be willing….

"I like to see the land of the Celts," Iolaus said finally, waiting for the reaction.

Surprised, Hercules' eyebrows lifted and his lips parted as he took in Iolaus' suggestion. "Eire?" he clarified, thinking of Morrigan and of the Druids.

"No, not Eire especially, but Britannia maybe. I hear it's wild, with a strong, independent people. The terrain is different from here, the gods are different…I don't know. I guess I feel like I missed something, not being able to travel so far with you…but, if you don't want to go…" Iolaus explained, suddenly not sure this was such a good idea. Hesitantly, he added, "Or if you want to go to Eire…" Though he couldn't really explain it to himself, Iolaus had never been comfortable around Morrigan…and he's sensed the same uneasiness about him in her. For all that her brittleness and harsh anger hid what he knew to be vulnerability, he didn't really want to meet her face to face. Sighing, he had to acknowledge to himself that some part of himself was afraid of her…afraid that if Hercules ever returned to her, there would be no place for him because he was pretty sure she'd never want him around. He didn't like the selfishness that revealed in his soul, but his honest heart couldn't deny it, not to himself.

"No…no. I'm happy to go wherever you want," Hercules replied quickly, seeing the light of adventure begin to dim in his friend's eyes. "I was just surprised, that's all. You do know it gets cold there, right?" he added with a teasing grin to redirect his friend's thoughts which the demigod was pretty sure had drifted to Morrigan. In all honesty, Hercules didn't want to face her again, either. He hadn't really loved her, not with the depth of his being that he knew true love demanded. She'd been…someone who needed him, as her daughter had needed him, and he'd tried to fool himself into believing that could be enough. But, it wasn't, and he knew it…and knew he'd been unfair to her, to encourage her to believe there could have been more. And…during the battle with Dahok, he'd come close to loathing her for her inability to even begin to grasp what Iolaus had meant to him…her refusal to acknowledge that he could care so much for someone else.

Oblivious to Hercules' thoughts and feelings about Morrigan, smiling in response to his friend's teasing, Iolaus nodded, as he said, "I'll just have to wear a cape, maybe something thick and cozy made out of wool."

"Then, Britannia it is," Hercules confirmed with a sharp nod, his quicksilver mind already planning ahead. "We can get a ship from Piraeus…it would take too long to travel overland and I'd like you to see the cliffs over the narrow straight between our seas and the great, endless sea beyond. The rugged stone formations are like pillars, sentinels, who keep watch over our part of the world, keeping our seas calm and relatively safe."

"Yeah?" Iolaus replied softly, imagining such a sight. "I'd like that…"

* * *

Except for sending a runner with scroll to Jason and Iphicles to explain they'd be away for a while, there wasn't much they had to do to prepare for the trip, except get to the port. It took them more than three weeks to travel south from the Olympian range, keeping to the forests and fields, avoiding the towns and villages. Neither of them had the stomach to face more of the hostility that they'd been confronting for the past few months, but neither minded the long detours either, being used to the wilds, as comfortable or more so in the woodland than in settlements. In many ways, it was a welcome relief, allowing them the time to connect again that they'd missed so badly and hadn't had since Iolaus had been restored to the mortal world. They had needed to deal with the subjects of his death and resurrection, the thoughts and emotions around those subjects haunting them until they'd finally aired them, however hard it had been to talk about it all. But, in the last weeks, they'd been able to recover their old ease with one another, the ghosts laid to rest.

Hercules could see the tension ease from his friend's body and congratulated himself on having made the right suggestion. Iolaus plied him with questions about the lands so far to the north and east, about the people and customs, about the wild life and the beginning incursions of the Romans. How long did Herc think the sea voyage would take? What would the weather likely be like when they arrived? How was the hunting, the fishing? Were there large towns…or mostly villages? Did they farm there…what crops, what fruit? Iolaus was encouraged to hear they brewed distinctive and flavourful ales. They figured the trip might well take the best part of a year, but neither was concerned about that. They each knew that any time they had now was a gift, something to be cherished, treasured. Greece had survived their absence before and could again.

Besides, it wasn't as if they'd never come back.

But, unspoken between them was the hope that when they did return, people might again see Iolaus for who and what he was. In Hercules' mind, that meant 'hero'…in Iolaus', 'a decent, fun-loving guy'. Just so long as strangers no longer saw a monster.

Avoiding Athens, they skirted around the perimeter of the city, looping down and around directly to the port. As they began to encounter more and more people, Iolaus shifted position, moving from his usual place a half-step in front to walk behind Hercules, sheltered in his shadow, so that he'd attract less personal attention. They left the busy roadway, filled with wagons and carts drawing cargos of wine, olives, textiles, pottery and everything else they could imagine to and from the docks, and ambled onto the wooden wharf, their eyes scanning the ships that were tied up, and those further out, anchored in the harbour. They'd decided to head to one of the busier seaside taverns, one of their favourites when in this area, to put out the word that they were looking to work their passage to Britannia, or as close to her shores as they could get before catching another ship. Given the heavy marine traffic as Athens did its best to rival Corinth as a major trading port, they didn't think it would take long to find what they were seeking.

They found it sooner than they'd expected.

Arriving at their destination, they were weaving past the fully occupied tables outside, Iolaus close behind Hercules with his head down and turned away from people, heading to the shadowed bar indoors to order a couple of ales and something to eat, when they were hailed from a table in the far corner, near the tavern wall, shaded from the blistering sun.

"Hercules! Iolaus! Over here!" the deep, warm tones beckoned.

Looking up and around, smiling broadly at the familiar voice, Hercules waved as he called back, "Jason! What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for the two of you," the ex-King of Corinth informed them as they exchanged embraces of hearty welcome. Patting Iolaus' shoulder as he directed the younger men to their seats, Jason noticed with a vague pang of sorrow how Iolaus chose a seat that kept his back to the crowd, as much in the shadows as he could get. It hurt to see how his once ebullient and sociable friend had to almost hide while in public lest he attract embarrassing and potentially violent attention. It was only too clear why Iolaus not only wanted but needed to get out of Greece for a while, to let things cool off and memories fade. It wasn't right and it sure as Tartarus wasn't fair…but 'right' and 'fair' couldn't always be expected however much they might be hoped for. Swallowing, Jason looked away to wave for service as he continued with a deliberately light-hearted tone, "You guys sure took your time getting here. But, that's just as well, I guess. Gave me time to have the Argo provisioned."

Hercules and Iolaus exchanged bemused but delighted glances as Iolaus replied a trifle coyly, "The Argo? Why? Are you going somewhere?"

"Britannia, I heard," Jason grinned back. "Did I misunderstand? Isn't that where we're headed?"

Laughing, Hercules leaned back in his chair as he nodded. "Yep, that's where we're headed. Nice of you to provide the transport."

"Hey…I'm not just handy transport," Jason protested, feigning affront. "I'm an intrepid explorer, or I used to be. When I got your scroll, I just knew I couldn't let the two of you wander off into the wilderness of those misty northern islands alone. Imagine the trouble you'd get into! No, no…you need me to look out for you, make sure you get back home again safely…"

Grinning as he picked up the ale the barmaid had placed in front of him, Iolaus snorted, then sipped, his eyes dancing with merriment as he teased back, "'Look out for us?' Yeah, right. You just hate the thought of missing all the fun and adventure."

"That, too," Jason replied sagely, then grinned back. "It's been too long since the three of us set out together for a good long voyage. I'm hurt you even considered leaving me behind."

Smiling, Hercules replied, "This is great, Jason…having you join us will make the journey perfect. Thank you for deciding to come along."

"And for bringing your boat," Iolaus added dryly, still teasing. "We really need the boat."

Jason swatted his blond friend, then lifted his own mug in a salute, "To the Argonauts!"

"Or some of them anyway," Iolaus replied, grinning as he clicked his clay mug against Jason's.

"More of them than you might think," Jason replied with a wink.

Straightening, Hercules asked, "Why…who else is coming along?"

"Who isn't, would be the easier question to answer," Jason answered, barely containing his delight at having surprised his friends so thoroughly. This was going to be one great trip!

Their good-natured reunion was cut short by the barmaid's reaction as she reached around their table to collect the empty mugs. Looking up into Iolaus' face for the first time, she froze briefly, then jerked backwards, her tray of clay mugs tipping and shattering on the stone-flagged terrace as she pointed and screamed, "THE DEMON! DAHOK!!!" Terrified, she backed away, sobbing hysterically.

The three old friends reacted instantly, Jason leaping to his feet to calm the young girl while Hercules stood to place himself between Iolaus and the other patrons who had whirled at the sound of her screams. Several of the more belligerent and less thoughtful, not considering that if the demon was actually present their best option might well be to run for the hills, growled threats and imprecations, standing abruptly to throw whatever was handy at the so-called monster…mugs, plates full of food, fruit…and knives.

"STOP IT!" Hercules shouted over the high-pitched hysteria that was sweeping the crowd, catching a knife in flight and ducking a bowl of stew. "LISTEN TO ME! I'm Hercules and this is my partner, Iolaus. Dahok has been destroyed! DO YOU HEAR ME?"

Meanwhile, Iolaus had also stood, shifting a little out of Hercules' shadow, uncomfortable with having to be protected by his stalwart friend. His hands were lifted in a gesture of peaceful submission, with the hope of calming them all and he studiously kept an expression on his face that was friendly and reassuring, though his gut twisted with dread and his heart ached for the fear and anger that he felt like a wave crushing him.

Neither Hercules' words nor Iolaus' friendly behaviour had the least positive impact. Objects and insults continued to be hurled at them as they backed toward the rear exit from the terrace back onto the wharf. But, a crowd was growing there as well, drawn by the building riot in the tavern's outdoor service area.

"We'd better get out of here," Jason growled, pulling coins from his pocket and stuffing them into the stunned barmaid's hand to pay for what they'd ordered.

"Good idea," Iolaus murmured as he took another step back. The angry crowd confronting them was becoming increasingly ugly and it was impossible to watch all of them at once. Hercules' caught another knife, reaching to pluck it out of the air as it arced toward his best friend, while Iolaus caught another…but the third got through.

"Uggghhh!" Iolaus grunted as the blade plunged into his right shoulder, twisting around from the force of the blow, his left hand reflexively gripping his right arm as he hunched against the pain, the suddenly nerveless fingers of his right hand letting the blade he'd caught clatter to the floor.

"Iolaus!" Hercules cried out at the sound of his friend's moan of agony. He took one quick look over his shoulder to assess the severity of the assault, then whirled back, his face darkening in fury. "FOOLS!" he shouted, enraged. "He's my best friend!" Picking up a table, the demigod hurled it into the crowd pressing closer to them, forcing them back and scattering them in confusion. As the crowd faltered and ducked away, Jason looped an arm around Iolaus' shoulders, sheltering his old friend with his own body as he half-pushed, half-dragged the hunter out of the exit.

"Hercules! Come on!" Jason shouted over his shoulder as he set a hasty pace back to the Argo and the friends they had on board who could help repel any adversaries who dared to follow them. Hercules turned and raced behind them, taking up a position on Iolaus' other side, so that he was bracketed and sheltered by his two friends as they pushed and shoved their way through the nasty crowd gathering around the tavern.

"You okay?" Hercules asked with a hurried glance down at his partner. Iolaus was a little hunched, cradling his right arm with his left hand, the hilt of the blade still imbedded in his body. Blood had begun to darken his vest and drip down his chest.

"I'll live," Iolaus ground out, then gasped, biting his lip as he was jostled and the pain shot through his shoulder, arcing down his arm and across his chest. His face was gray with shock and beads of sweat had broken out on his brow.

"This way," Jason told them as he shouldered forward, shoving sailors and dockworkers out of their way.

Moving together, Hercules cleared their path, punching or throwing anyone who tried to block them out of the way, until the closest would-be assailants finally figured out it was healthier to stand aside than to continue to make trouble. But, this only made the maddened crowd more frenzied as those in the center tried to retreat and those on the fringes tried to push forward. Finally, as they approached the Argo, the shouting and violence attracted the attention of her crew, who mobilized immediately, pouring down the gangplank to club and elbow their way into position to form a protective phalanx around their captain and their favourite heroes.

Jason and Hercules hustled Iolaus up the gangplank and along the main deck to Jason's cabin. Iolaus had been uncharacteristically silent since having been stabbed, and his two taller friends looked down with sorrow and righteous indignation at his unnatural pallor, the pain and humiliation in his clouded blue eyes.

Catching their looks, Iolaus rolled his eyes as he muttered, "Just don't say anything, okay?"

"I'll be damned if I won't!," Jason roared. "That was the most inexcusable, disgusting, ridiculous and idiotic demonstration of human stupidity that I have ever seen! How dare they turn on you like that? As if you were a criminal, or a…a …"

"Monster?" Iolaus supplied, wearily, then sucked in his breath as Hercules bent to lift his vest a little away from the wound to examine it.

"By the gods, Iolaus, you don't deserve this," Jason sighed, frowning with deep concern and understanding of what such a reaction must cost his friend…wounding far more deeply than the simple blade had done.

"It's been like this everywhere we go," Hercules supplied grimly, cutting a quick look up into his partner's face and deciding Iolaus needed to sit down before he fell down. Gently guiding Iolaus to the right side of the bed that was bolted to the cabin floor, he pressed his best friend down as he said to Jason, "Jase, we'll need some water and bandages."

"No wonder you want to get away for a while," their friend growled with helpless anger as he turned to shout orders for the necessary supplies to one of his crew. "Greece doesn't deserve you."

Iolaus just shook his head tightly as he let Hercules help him out of his vest, keeping the fabric from pulling against the knife that held it against his right shoulder. Taking a breath to hold back a moan of pain, he eased himself sideways down onto the bed, Hercules assisting by supporting his shoulders and then lifting his legs as Iolaus rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the basin of tepid water, clean linen strips of bandages, small stoppered clay pots of medicinal herbs, clean but tattered rags that could be used to wash away the blood, a pitcher of cool water and a battered mug. Jason carried the tray of supplies to the small table by the side of the bed, then moved around the other side, out of the demigod's way.

"This is going to hurt," Hercules cautioned as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the blade, his other hand braced against Iolaus' chest below the injury.

"Just do it," Iolaus replied stoically, taking a breath and gritting his teeth, grateful for the supportive hand Jason laid on his left shoulder. With a single, smooth action, Hercules pulled the blade from his friend's shoulder, then tossed it away as he simultaneously flicked Iolaus' vest out of the way and applied a thick pad of linen to soak up the bright crimson blood that welled from the wound, pressing down to staunch the flow. Iolaus grimaced, groaning under his breath at the pain.

"Easy, buddy," the demigod murmured, his own face set in grim lines of empathy and suppressed fury. He fumbled with his other hand to dampen the rags in the water, then handed them to Jason who had hastily pulled the soiled vest away, tossing it on the foot of the bed. Matter-of-factly, the ex-King washed away the blood that had streaked the hunter's chest silently, only too well aware of how much Iolaus hated to be dependent upon others, even when he was hurt.

In minutes, they had him cleaned up and the wound securely bandaged with healing salves and linen. Iolaus closed his eyes, letting his tense muscles relax and he took a couple of deep breaths. Gods, he hated this…hated being the object of such fear and fury, hated needing protection and help with treating his injuries…hated being injured in the first place. He'd been so joyously, unreservedly happy to be granted another chance to stand beside Hercules, to guard his back…only to find he was little more than a burden, loathed by all except his closest friends. Wearily, he wondered how long he'd have to be away before people would forget and just let him be who he was.

Hercules and Jason studied him and then looked across him at one another, reading each other like open books. They were both appalled and infuriated at how their friend was being treated, outraged that he'd actually been wounded and could just as easily have been killed. With one accord, they silently vowed to stand with him, guarding him against any who would threaten harm. It had been a miracle to get Iolaus back from the Light and they weren't prepared to risk losing him again. Nodding tightly at the demigod, Jason said quietly, "I'll give the order to cast off. We should be underway within the hour."

As Jason left the cabin, Hercules looked back down at his friend and noted the slight shiver of shock. Reaching toward the foot of the bed, he unfolded a soft blanket and pulled it up and over Iolaus, gently tucking it in around his friend's body for warmth. Then, he poured out a mug of cool water from the pitcher that had been thoughtfully placed on the tray of supplies. "Iolaus?" he called quietly, and when his friend opened pain-filled eyes, he held up the mug. "You need to replace some of the fluids you just lost." Iolaus nodded and murmured, "Thanks," as Hercules supported his head and shoulders and steadied the mug in Iolaus' trembling hand when he insisted on taking it to raise it to his own lips.

The hunter drank slowly but with gratitude at being able to assuage his raging thirst. Sighing, he handed the mug back to Hercules who eased him back against the pillows.

"Do you want to talk about it?" the demigod asked.

"No," Iolaus replied, giving his friend a weary half-smile to let Herc know he was all right.

Nodding, Hercules turned back to the tray and gathering up the soiled rags, he lifted it and headed toward the door. "You get some rest," he suggested, "while I help get this ship out to sea. The sooner we're far away from here, the better, as far as I'm concerned."

Iolaus nodded silently, his gaze turning to the patch of sky he could see outside the window in the wall of the cabin. His jaw tight with anger, eyes darkened with concern, Hercules turned and left the cabin, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

"Those bastards," seethed Phoebe, daughter of the sharp-eyed Lynceus, her gaze scanning the busy harbour, intent upon her role as the ship's pilot and navigator, determined to get the Argo and her passengers out of this part of Greece and into the open sea as quickly as possible.

His pen scratching on the thick parchment scroll he braced on the weathered wooden case on his knees, Archivus nodded. Finished the sentence he'd been composing, he looked up from where he was sitting by the rail as he replied a trifle pedantically, "They mistook him for Dahok. Given the circumstances, their reaction is both predictable and reasonable."

"Reasonable?" Phoebe spat out, her eyes narrowed with disgust and anger. "Reasonable? Give me a break. Greece is lucky enough to get a hero like Iolaus back from the dead and all the stupid, superstitious oafs can do is try to kill him again every chance they get? Idiots. Scum." Her voice grumbled away, then she turned to call to the man on the tiller, "Veer to starboard, submerged obstacle dead ahead."

The wheel spun, the sails filling with wind as the trim ship heeled over, skimming lightly over the turquoise waves, obstacle averted. Nodding as she kept her eyes shifting from the waters immediately around them, to the far horizon, she waved in a circular motion to port, directing the ship back onto its course south around the Peloponnesian peninsula.

Archivus shrugged, unoffended by her reaction. It was his job to record events…he wasn't personally responsible for them. Besides, though he'd teased Iolaus for years, ever since their first voyage together to serve Jason on his quest for the Golden Fleece, routinely acting as if the blond warrior was invisible and nameless, he had always admired Iolaus and agreed whole-heartedly with the young woman's assessment. Gazing back at the receding port, lifting his gaze to the bright temples on the heights over Athens, he shook his head. They were idiots, all of them, to drive Hercules and Iolaus from the shores of Greece.

'Who will defend them from invaders, monsters and the vanity of the gods now?' he wondered. Realizing the question had a poetic sound, he bent again to his scroll.

* * *

"How is he?" Jason murmured quietly as he joined Hercules at the rail once the ship was fully underway, the port disappearing in the distance. The demigod had been staring out to sea, his features set in grim lines.

"He's…fine," Hercules grated. When Jason just snorted in disbelief, Hercules' fist pounded on the rail in frustration as he turned to face his friend, eyes blazing. "How do you think he is?" he snapped.

Jason lifted his hands in a gesture of peace as he replied in a tone of conciliation, "Hey, I'm one of the good guys, remember?" When Hercules looked away, then nodded tightly, mumbling an apology, the Argonaut laid a hand on his friend's tight shoulder. "I'm as disgusted and angry as you are, Hercules," he sighed. "After all Iolaus has gone through…all he risked to save the lives of those fools, he sure as Tartarus doesn't deserve this."

Blowing out a long breath, the demigod forced himself to relax as he turned his softening gaze back to Jason. "I wonder if it will ever change?" he said, his voice tight with concern for his friend. "How long before they forget…before they see him as he really is?"

"Probably as long as it takes for them to need the both of you again, and remember that they only have themselves to blame for driving you away," Jason replied. "I saw Iphicles before I left, letting him know that I would be traveling with you. You can be sure he'll take every opportunity to remind the other rulers that if they want their favourite team of heroes back, they'd better deal with the prejudice and the rumours."

"Thanks," Hercules murmured, turning back to watch the rolling turquoise waves. "I don't want to wish people any harm…but I almost hope they do miss us…badly."

The two old friends heard a snort behind them and turned to see Iolaus watching them quizzically, shaking his head. His chest bare but for the bandages swathed around his shoulder and across his upper body, the hunter scolded, "You don't mean that…if something terrible happens while we're gone, you'll guilt yourself out over it for the rest of your life."

Hercules looked down, but not before he'd seen the teasing glint in his partner's eyes and couldn't resist the smile tugging on his lips in return. Shrugging, he looked back into Iolaus' eyes, seeing a slow grin bloom to match his own as he replied, "Well, maybe not a really big disaster…just a little one, like a warlord running amok, or the Persians attacking, or Hera sending a few of her favourite ghouls to wreak a little havoc."

Snickering, Iolaus joined them at the rail, leaning his back against it, hooking his thumb in his belt to ease the pressure on his injured shoulder. "Right…just a little disaster. Frankly, I hope they don't miss us at all. I want to enjoy this vacation and not feel guilty for leaving for a while."

Laying a hand on his left shoulder, giving him a gentle shake, Jason intoned, "You have nothing to feel guilty about, my friend…nothing at all."

Wordlessly, his eyes conveying his gratitude for the support, Iolaus nodded once then looked away, his gaze taking in the barrels and crates securely tied down around the perimeter of the deck. Puzzled, he looked back at Jason. "What's all this stuff?" he asked.

"Well," Jason replied in the tone of the oldest who knows more about the realities of life, "it takes a lot of dinars to keep a ship and crew this size provisioned for a lengthy journey, and I can't draw on the Corinthian treasury like I did in the old days. So I thought we'd mix a little business with pleasure. Iphicles granted me a merchant's charter and advanced me the gold to invest, so I've entered the world of international trade. These are goods, wine, olive oil, textiles, pottery, baubles and the like, that we'll sell or trade as we go along for supplies."

The heroes exchanged amused and appreciative glances, as Hercules murmured, "Smart, very smart."

"Well, I'm not just a pretty face," Jason replied, looking pleased with himself.

"That's certainly the truth," Iolaus agreed, feigning thoughtful consideration as he gazed intently up at Jason's face. "'Pretty' is not the way I'd describe that craggy, leathered…"

When Jason scowled darkly in pretended insult and uttered a threatening growl, Iolaus dissolved into giggles while Hercules chuckled, his heart lightened by the teasing, the worry and concern of the past few months fading as he entered fully into the spirit of their adventure.

* * *

It was a leisurely voyage under clear, azure skies, the sun warm but not overwhelming as it blazed down upon them. There was a constant wind filling their sails and the crew relaxed given all the good portents. While they made their way to Venice and then to Sicily, the Argonauts caught up with one another, many not having had the opportunity to see either Hercules or Iolaus since the disastrous events in Sumeria when Gilgamesh had killed Iolaus. There was a good deal of story-telling, reminiscing, singing and saluting one another with good ale once the ship anchored each night as old friends re-established their ease with one another and all made it abundantly clear how very glad they were for the miracle of having Iolaus back in the living world again.

There was Theseus, a strong man acclaimed as a hero in his own right, whose height and musculature rivaled Hercules himself, Meleager who had taken part in the famous Calydonian Boar Hunt after the voyage to fetch the Golden Fleece, the seer Mopsus, Ides and Argus, the skilled shipwright who had overseen the building of the Argo in his youth. Zetes and Calais, brothers who were so fleet of foot they were thought to be the chosen of the North Wind. Periclymenus, who was so skilled in battle it seemed to his hapless foes that he must be many men, not a single warrior and finally Euphemus, a man so at home in the water his friends teased that he might as well walk on the surface of it as dive in to swim. Augeus (now a King with uncertain memories and unclear thought processes), Pelius (father of Achilles), Telamon (father of Ajax), Nauplius (father of Palomedes) and Oileus were all too old now to travel with them, but they and Lynceus along with Polydeuces who were now dead by Castor's hand, and even Castor himself were remembered in the stories they each told.

Their wholehearted affection warmed the warrior, allowing the memories of the less pleasant reactions from strangers fade. Jason watched, his own heart gladdened as he saw both Hercules and Iolaus relax into the journey, and then begin to enjoy themselves, laughing and teasing one another and the others, at ease with life, blossoming again with happiness. The winds and clear skies held as they pulled away from the Sicilian coastline, heading toward the narrow passage that would take them into the great ocean currents beyond, the sea rolling gently away under the prow of the Argo as she cut smoothly through the waves.

They had avoided the main ports of Italy, not having any interest in meeting up with Roman contingents. They wanted no part of the burgeoning Empire, no reminders of conquest or of war. From time to time, they'd spot Roman military vessels on the horizon, as well as other trading ships and fleets of fishers, but the trip remained peaceful, even idyllic.

Until they were within a day's sail of the strait.

Heavy black clouds appeared over the horizon to the west, and the winds picked up, the waves rising to white crested peaks, as the Argo dipped heavily into their troughs, rolling increasingly in the tumultuous sea. As the day darkened with the approaching storm, everyone was pressed into service to ensure everything was securely battened down. Many of those remaining to work on the open deck, to navigate and steer, to man the sails, went so far as to also tie themselves off with long, flexible lengths of rope to keep from being washed overboard as the gale swept in, driving salty spray and sharp needles of rain into their faces, stinging their bodies. The waves rose higher, sweeping over the deck with increasing strength and fury as the day plunged into darkness. When the full blast of the tempest hit, those who were not absolutely needed on deck were ordered below by Jason…he had enough to do to keep his ship afloat without worrying about the safety of those who had no need to face the brunt of the storm.

Taking the tiller himself, working in close tandem with his pilot, Phoebe, shouting out orders to the sailors on the deck and in the shrouds, Jason fought the monstrous strength of the winds and seas as they conspired to hurl his ship upon the rocks at the base of the looming cliffs. In the flash of lightning, Jason could have sworn he'd seen Scylla and Charybdis reaching out from their caves on the opposite sides of the treacherous passage to entwine their claws around the beams of his vessel, and he could hear their wail in the wind as they sought to capture and destroy them. In the legends, this was the passage to the 'far western lands', the places of the dead, and Jason ground his teeth, steeling himself against superstition, knowing the stories were only myth, that this strait led out to a more open sea and gave access to the eastern coastlines and ultimately to those northern fog enshrouded islands.

Hercules staggered up onto the quarterdeck, bending almost double against the force of the wind, as he lurched forward to lend his strength to Jason's in holding the tiller against the surging seas and chaotic winds. Soaked to the skin, their hair and clothing plastered against their heads and bodies, knuckles white with effort, muscles straining against the inhuman forces arrayed against them, they leaned into one another as they held the wheel steady, holding the Argo to her true course between the walls of stone.

Iolaus, too, dared to face the full fury of the storm. Though his shoulder was still tender and stiff, there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and he knew Phoebe would need help in keeping watch for the hazards of rock that imperiled them on either side. One to starboard, the other to port, they were both securely tied to the wooden rails, safe so long as the ship was safe, doomed to sink with her if the Argo floundered against the sharp stone that had tumbled from the cliffs above and littered the heaving sea. The dark day had deepened into the utter blackness of night, the gloom split with shocking brilliance by the jagged illumination of lightning that rocketed through the skies in a steady, fast pulse of fiery energy as the thunder rumbled and crashed around them, deafening with its sound and fury.

Wryly, Iolaus flicked a quick look from time to time up along the reaches of stone to their pinnacles high above, recalling Hercules' words when his best friend had called them 'sentinels', protectors of the Mediterranean from the vast power of the ocean beyond. Perhaps these towering walls of stone seemed benign under a warm sun and clear skies, but in the darkness of the tempest, they sprang out in harsh relief with each flash of light, looming over them, pressing closer as if intent upon crushing the flimsy wood of the valiant Argo as she pitched and heaved through the madness.

'You'd almost think someone doesn't want us leaving,' Iolaus mused whimsically, unafraid, trusting to the Fates and more particularly his old friend's skill at the helm, as he squinted against the slicing daggers of rain to peer into the night, shouting out directions and warnings over the tumult of wind and thunder to Jason as needed.

The Argo scraped and scudded too close to the wave-splattered boulders often enough to keep the crew vigilant and quick to respond to their captain's barked orders, swinging the boom to catch the changing winds, trimming and securing sails that broke loose in the gale, relashing cargo that threatened to break free from ropes stretched by the deluge of waves and rain. Slipping and scudding across the slippery, pitching deck, bending against the force of the winds, shouting and cursing, voices lost in the sudden cracks of thunder or blending with the deep, rolling of the sound that swelled around them, competent, courageous, the crew battled on during the breathless hours of the war they were waging with the elements.

Finally, the ship won through the strait, and though the winds and waves threatened to force them back upon the rocks behind and to starboard, the consummate skill and dedication of the dauntless crew prevailed, until finally the interminable night ended, the storm fading into the east as the winds gradually calmed and the sea settled. The thunderous black clouds that blew ever eastward were gradually limned with gold as the dawn broke behind them, the stars in the skies above and to the west fading as the heavens lightened from pearl gray to soft yellow blending into the blue that promised an easier day of sailing. The enticing songs of Scylla and Charybdis faded into the distance as the sharp call of sea birds filled the air.

The breeze off the ocean was sharp, filling the sails and chilling the wet skin of men and the single woman who sagged now in relieved exhaustion. They could taste the salt on their lips, feel its grit on skin that had been scoured rough and red during the storm. Hands and arms sported gashes, bodies were bruised and legs ached with the strain of fighting the steep roll of the ship for balance for hours on end. They stretched stiffening backs, rolled tight shoulders to loosen their muscles and grinned like fiends who'd triumphed over demons, as well they had. Rations were broken out, mugs of fresh water filled from barrels that had been sealed against the onslaught of the sea were passed around and dry clothing was scrounged and shared from leather duffels that had been covered with tarp in the deep hold. All but a skeleton crew gladly retreated to their webbed hummocks below decks, blissfully sinking into restorative sleep.

* * *

Behind them, Aphrodite stood upon the rocks with Scylla and Charybdis, her arms crossed as she shook her head and frowned.

"We did our best to drive them back or at least hold them within the channel," Scylla crooned softly, enchanting tones that hovered like sparkling crystal in the air as Charybdis sighed, a lilting sound that held a delicate, mesmerizing quality.

"I know you did," Aphrodite acknowledged, her radiant beauty marred by a dark scowl as her eyes tracked the receding vessel vanishing over the northern horizon. The gods and goddesses of Olympus, as well as those of the sea were of mixed mind about the abrupt departure of so many of Greece's heroes to lands so far removed. Some were predictably delighted, too glad to bid adieu to those that would thwart future plans, while others were indifferent. But some honestly regretted their loss, even if for only a brief span of time knowing that where heroes failed to intervene, mortals would turn to their gods, pleading for intercession and creating an annoying cacophony of demand. But, Aphrodite and her sisters had been consumed with a sense of foreboding, as if shadows lurked beyond the edge of their perception, shadows of unknown danger and threat to the well being of mortals and a certain half-brother they cared about. Forbidden to intervene directly, 'Dite had prevailed upon her cousins, the wind and storms, and even the two pitiful cursed creatures who guarded either side of the portal to the ocean beyond to try to discourage the intrepid adventurers and turn them back, away from their intended journey.

But, her indirect attempts to draw them back from the shadows of the future had failed and she blew out a long sigh of frustrated concern. Frowning in thought, she wondered if there were any other interventions she could try to put into play, to afford them some measure of protection against the darkness that threatened, without being accused of interfering improperly in the lives of mortals. Chewing on her lip, she thought there might be one option left to her if some kind of intervention really became necessary, though it was a long shot, unlikely to be satisfactory.

"Be careful," she whispered into the wind. "Be safe."

* * *

The remainder of the voyage was peacefully uneventful. Jason stopped at several ports along the way to trade goods, and to pick up any news or rumours of reasonably current events on the northern isles. Beyond the fact that the Romans had established their presence, and that many of the original inhabitants resented and resisted the conquerors, there wasn't much to learn. It sounded as if it might be best to avoid landing in the south of Britannia, where the Romans had established a firm hold, in favour of sailing further to the north through the North Sea.

In little more than a week, as they sailed between the mainland of Europe and the land called Britannia, most of the crew stood along the port rail to marvel at the awesome and starkly gleaming white cliffs that loomed over the sea. Though their tops were forested, it was clear that the constant wind from the sea and the harsh marine climate had left the growth twisted as life tenaciously held on in the face of adversity. They could also make out the busy port, filled with Roman vessels of trade and war, and with the merchant ships of other nations, the flags and sails brightly coloured, the ships themselves shaped in distinctive forms, most striking of which were the Viking long ships with the dragon heads that Hercules recognized from his visits to the Norse lands further to the north and east.

Bypassing the wide, and tempting, entry inland afforded by the mouth of the Tamesis that led to the large settlement known as Londinium, they continued on to the north, noting extensive marshlands and, increasingly, high barren moors. The further north they traveled, the more they encountered a persistent drizzle and often the seas around them grew becalmed, overlaid by thick tendrils of damp fog forcing them to man the oars. Iolaus wasn't the only member of the crew who found himself rummaging in the stores below deck for the stock of warm woolen cloaks that Jason had had the foresight to acquire in trade days before.

But, when the sun broke out it was glorious. The air held a trace of coolness, the breezes crisp and enlivening. The scent of elder and ash, oak and cedar blended with the scents of the sea, tempting them toward land. Seabirds flew in thick clouds, diving and darting toward the foam-flecked surface of the sea as they fished and the fish were abundant, clearly visible through the veil of the pristinely clear waters the Argo cut through as she heeled to port, heading toward what looked like a promisingly large river entry to the mysterious lands beyond.

Though the thickly forested shores seemed devoid of human occupation, Iolaus could feel the small hairs on the back of his neck twitch and shooting a quick glance at Hercules, he could see that his partner felt the same psychic sense of being observed. Well hidden by the trees, whoever was watching them was being cautious, and that the adventurers could understand…caution didn't necessarily mean combative. For all the natives of this land knew, they may have come as invaders. Certainly a ship full of powerful, well- armed men did not bode well given the violent history of this small northern land.

So, the men concentrated on giving signals of peace, smiling openly and laughing warmly at one another's teasing remarks. They kept their hands away from their weapons, and took care to not appear particularly silent or stealthy. Several thought to open up casks or crates, holding up examples of their trading goods for all the world, or at least whoever was watching so closely, to see.

Finally, as they slowly sailed around a bend of the wide river, they came upon an open space, cleared of trees, with a rudimentary dock jutting out into the water. A group of ten or so dark haired men, short in stature, stood along the shoreline, weapons visible but sheathed or slung over shoulders…ready and able to fight, but not insisting upon it unless necessary. Scanning the forest behind them, spotting a trail that likely led to a nearby village, the Argonauts presumed that where they could see ten, it was likely that thirty or more were nearby keeping a close vigil.

Waving from the deck as the Argo slid closer to the dock, smiling to signal peaceful intent, those on board nevertheless remained equally vigilant. Until the first words, or signs, were exchanged and a warm welcome firmly established, they would be on their guard for ambush or attack. As they drew closer, they could see that the men in the greeting party were garbed in sturdy woolen garments and leather, the clothing dyed in browns, greens and yellow, with splashes of red to blend in well with the forest around them. Several of the strangers returned their waves and a couple even smiled in an impersonal kind of way. When Hercules threw out one of the guide ropes to be tied off, two stepped forward to catch it and wind it securely around a pole anchored in the water on the edge of the dock. Theseus threw out another rope from the stern, and the Argo was eased in to rest from her long journey.

As they slipped out the gangplank, and it clattered against the wood of the decking, one man stepped forward, older than most of the others, his hair gray, long and tied back with a leather thong, the grizzle of beard on his face and chin. Bushy eyebrows almost hid sharp blue eyes, but a smile twitched on his lips as he noticed the apparently friendly but clearly watchful stance of their unexpected visitors.

Jason was the first off the ship, as was his right and responsibility as Captain and the local man strode forward to greet him.

"Welcome travelers," he called with a slight inclination of his head. "I am Corgil, the head of my village," he said in heavily accented and halting Latin, the new lingua franca of this outpost of the Empire.

"I am Jason," the Argonaut returned in the same tongue, "and these are my friends. We have come in peace to trade and to see a land much different from our own."

"We'll be glad to see what goods you have to offer," Corgil replied with an easy, engaging grin. "We don't get many traders this far north of Londinium. What land do you call home?"

"Hellas," Jason replied, using the Roman term for Greece.

"Ah…a long way from these shores, indeed," nodded the chieftain, stepping aside and beckoning Jason to move forward, allowing his men to also disembark. "You'll be weary from your voyage. Come, let us welcome you properly to our village and share what meat and bread we have with you."

As they made their way along the forest path, Hercules and Iolaus close upon Jason's heels to ensure his security should this welcome be less than it appeared, the two leaders continued to exchange information. A drum sounded from somewhere nearby, and then a horn blew a series of short blasts, signaling to the villagers that the strangers were friendly.

Casting a sidelong look at Jason, his glance flicking back to include Hercules, Corgil revealed, "Your arrival is not so unexpected as you might think."

Jason smiled openly, laughter in his eyes, as he replied, "Aye, well, we had the sense of being watched for the last hour or so."

Corgil chuckled as he nodded. "Yes, we keep scouts along the river to warn us of travelers on the water, but that's not what I meant. Mabon told us you'd be coming…."

"Who?" Hercules interjected, startled into speech by the unexpected but familiar name.

Looking back over his shoulder and up at the tall demigod, Corgil smiled knowingly, nodding a little to himself as if verifying something he'd guessed but not known for certain. "Mabon, the wisest of our Druids. He said the 'Chosen One' would remember his brother in spirit who has gone ahead to the Land of the Living. I would guess that you are the hero whose coming he foretold…he saw that you would come in peace with many strong friends who might become our friends as well."

Iolaus looked from Hercules to Corgil, then his eyes locked on Jason's questioning gaze. Shrugging, he indicated that he had no idea what Herc and Corgil were talking about.

'Chosen One', 'foretold'?

Iolaus sighed. The last time they'd been greeted in similar ways, it hadn't turned out well.

* * *

It was a good-sized village and the people welcomed them heartily, glad to see traders and eager to find out what goods they had brought. It wasn't long before children were scampering amongst the newcomers, trying out their limited Latin but communicating mostly with signs and hopeful grins. Women hung back longer, watching from the shadows in the curtained doorways of the wooden huts with thatched roofs, coming forward when called by their men to see to the preparation of a welcoming feast. Several of the strangers were taller than any men they'd seen before…and it was clear they were all warriors for all they'd come as merchants. Curious, they studied the single female amongst the group, wondering how she'd come to find herself in such formidable company. She was no whore that was clear from her feisty manner and evident expectation to be treated with the respect accorded to her male colleagues.

It was midafternoon before Mabon joined them, moving silently into the village from the edge of the forest, a peaceful, welcoming expression on his face as he strode unerringly to Hercules' side. "Welcome, Hercules," he said quietly, looking up at the much taller man. "I see you have found what you'd thought lost forever. It's good to see you whole."

Startled, the demigod looked down at the lean, dark-haired and sun-bronzed young man who spoke with such confidence, green eyes wide and candid, smiling softly up at him. "You'll be Mabon, I presume?" Hercules replied, one brow quirking up under his long bangs.

"That I am," Mabon replied, his smile widening as his eyes glinted with humour. "You seem surprised."

Looking away and then back down at the Druid, Hercules nodded then laughed a little. "I guess I am," he admitted, "though perhaps I shouldn't be. The Mabon I knew was very wise and seemed to know things without being told."

The Druid studied the taller man, seeing the shadows of grief there, a sorrow which touched him and he laid a gentle hand on Hercules' arm as he said quietly, "Grieve not, my friend. The Mabon you knew has gone to the center of all creation, and thrives in the Land of the Living. He'll return if he chooses one day."

Swallowing, Hercules dipped his head a moment in memory of a guileless and infinitely caring soul who had helped him regain some measure of sanity and control if not peace. Blowing out a soft sigh, he nodded a little as he looked back into the wise eyes of this new Mabon. "I'm glad to know that," the demigod replied. "He is a special soul, one I would not want to think of as lost."

Laughing lightly, Mabon shook his head as he replied, "We are, none of us, ever lost, Hercules. Just out of sight for a while." Turning, the Druid rested his eyes upon Iolaus for a long moment, studying the man, weighing him somehow, then nodding as if he'd found the measure he sought. "And, you'd be Iolaus. Anam Cara to Hercules, as he is to you."

Nodding, holding out an arm to grasp the welcoming grip of Mabon, the warrior nodded, puzzlement in his eyes as he wondered at the strange term. "Yeah, I'm Iolaus," he confirmed, then had to ask, "What is, what did you call it, 'anancara'?"

"You know what it is, Iolaus…you know what you are, what you mean to one another," Mabon replied a trifle cryptically, then relented as he smiled, and clarified, "In your words, 'anam cara' means 'soul friend', but it is more than that." Looking back at Hercules to include him in their discussion, he elaborated, "It is as if you share a soul, one incomplete without the other, in a way that transcends other relationships, a way we consider to be sacred. Is that not the way of it for the both of you?"

The two friends exchanged a quick, uncertain glance made more sure by the recognition in the other's eyes. 'Yes,' they each thought, 'that's exactly the way of it.' Iolaus nodded as he looked back at Mabon, seeing the warmth of humour and wisdom in those oddly old eyes, as he repeated almost thoughtfully, "'Anam cara…yeah…but, how did you know?"

Hercules laughed then as he lightly dropped one hand on each of their shoulders, and replied, "You'd be surprised at what a Mabon knows, Iolaus. Trust me…there are no secrets from one such as this."

His brows lifting under tousled curls, eyes a little wide but with a teasing grin, Iolaus quipped back, "No secrets? Not sure I like that…could be embarrassing…"

Hercules winced theatrically while Mabon simply smiled knowingly. "Fortunately," the demigod replied, "Druids have too much integrity to use their knowledge against the rest of us."

Iolaus sighed as if a great weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. "Well, that's good," he allowed, winking at Mabon. "There're some things nobody should ever know…"

But, Mabon didn't enter into the banter. Gazing into Iolaus' eyes, until the warrior had sobered and was watching him uncertainly, the Druid said, "You've nothing to hide, Iolaus, and less to regret in the choices you've made, the actions you've taken in your life. Your road has ever been hard, but it has made you strong…." Looking away, the Mabon paused, then seemed to think better of saying anything further. Giving himself a little shake, he smiled again gently. "The two of you are well-matched, and always have been since the dawn of time. But, enough of this solemn talk…I find I'm thirsty. Come…join me for a pot of ale and tell me of your journey."

It hadn't been much, that slight pause, but Hercules felt a chill along his spine. Shifting his gaze to his friend, the demigod could see that Iolaus had sensed it as well. There was something the Mabon had chosen not to share with them, and the shadow that had passed so swiftly across the younger man's face left them both wondering…and worried.

Good news was for sharing…bad news could keep.

Sighing, a little resigned that trouble was once again on the horizon, they each set their misgivings aside to regain the bantering mood the Druid sought. Whatever it was, they'd find a way to handle it.

No other option warranted consideration. They were 'anam cara' and from what Mabon had said, and from their own experience, souls linked by destiny could not be severed…not forever, nor ever again if they had anything to say about it.

* * *

It was a lavish feast, that first night of jovial welcome. Haunches of deer and boar, bear and stoat, platters of bread baked in hard rolls with soft centers, vegetables both grilled and cooked in milk, thickened into a sauce, a strange but tasty concoction of meats boiled in bags in the cauldron over the fire, called 'haggis', a dish apparently learned from the people farther to the north, apples baked in honey and several different kinds of cheeses, both hard and soft, white and sharp. Ale flowed freely, and Iolaus was glad to see Herc had been right about the quality of this foreign brew that was darker and richer than what he'd known in Greece, sharp and bitter but satisfying.

They taught one another songs in their native tongues, told stories from their respective mythologies and adventures of life, laughed and joked, at ease under the brightly speckled sky.

Iolaus found himself gazing at Mabon across the fire, thinking about how this stranger had in fact somehow known of his past…he'd seen it in the Druid's eyes. But, Mabon had seen the man, not the monster, and Iolaus felt grateful for that…and somehow, he'd sensed Mabon had known that, too.

Smiling, he leaned back on his elbows, taking a deep breath as he gazed at the stars overhead, noting the slightly different position of the familiar constellations, the rising of an almost full moon…and felt more at peace than he had in a long, long time.

Hercules, sitting further down, gazed past a laughing Jason and a teasing Argos, to his best friend, and he smiled, too, glad to see Iolaus so evidently relaxed and happy. They'd been right to come here, right to seek some kind of personal peace.

The demigod didn't notice that Mopsus, their seer, sat further back in the shadows, away from the hilarity, though he'd smile when anyone made a point of engaging him in the banter. But, then the lines of his face would settle back into thoughtful sadness as his gaze traveled around the gathering, sorry to be able to see the broken fragments of a time that had not yet come into being. Long ago, he'd learned to live with his burden of 'sight', to guard his tongue once he'd learned the Fates wouldn't be denied by his futile warnings…but he'd never stopped cursing what others called a 'gift' in their ignorance. Determinedly, he lifted his chin and shifted himself back fully into the circle. Mortals suffered and died, that was their lot…but in the midst of sorrow was celebration and joy, good times and good company. Only a fool would fail to enjoy the gift of an evening like this, when laughter was plentiful and spirits were high…it was the light of these memories that would make the darkness ahead bearable.

* * *

The next day, Iolaus, Theseus, Meleager, Zetes and his brother, Calais headed off with some of the village men to replenish the badly eroded stores of meat, while Hercules, Jason and the others remained in the camp. Archivus wanted to catch up on his journal entry, recording some of the stories he'd heard during the celebration before the details faded in his mind. Phoebe, though she'd never have admitted it, rather enjoyed spending time with other women and Argos occupied himself with sharing shipbuilding tips with the village's master craftsman. Mopsus watched the hunters leave, and almost called them back, but his visions were so uncertain…and besides, from what he'd seen, he knew it would be fruitless anyway, so he took himself off for a pensive walk in the peace of the ageless forest.

Madon watched him leave, sighing a little at the pain he could read in the other's heart, understanding it well and wishing for a comfort he could not give. As he saw the older seer disappear into the forest, the younger one thought that the seasons of life were like the seasons of the world…the freshness and promise of spring and the strength, the satisfaction of summer. Fall brought pensiveness, a resting time to enjoy the fruits of labour and to celebrate the harvests. The winter of the soul was hard, and seemed long…but spring would always come again, bringing a new cycle of hope and promise. There was much one could learn from the earth, if one was patient, watched and listened. But, men were impatient by nature and it was difficult for them, sometimes, to understand the simplest of lessons.

Jason and Hercules were interested in hearing more about the politics of the island, of how things had been since the incursions of the Romans, so they sought out Corgil by the fire in the center of the village circle.

"It's not been easy," the chieftain began, in response to their questions. "The Romans have divided us, more than we were divided before, and we've not been a particularly peaceful folk left on our own. We warred and raided for the usual profit…land, game, wealth of a sort…women sometimes when our bloodlines needed strengthening. But, we shared something in common…a belief, I guess you'd call it. A deference to the wisdom of the druids."

"What have the Romans done to change that?" Jason asked, curious, but figuring he knew at least some of the answer. The conquerors were no fools. They offered power and prestige to those who would see the world as they saw it…wealth and the opportunity to become 'Roman citizens', part of the 'elite', for those who considered affiliation with the interlopers to be desirable as opposed to treasonous.

"Oh, the usual, I'd imagine," the older man reflected. "There are always those who are unhappy with their lot, eager to improve their situation in life. Gold and silver, and the things they can buy, pleasant and comfortable 'villas' with elaborate baths and mosaics, fine clothing…the chance to travel and see a strange, rich city in a land that's always warm. The Roman gods seem more sophisticated than our humble nature spirits and ancient souls, I guess. But, I find no comfort in their grandeur…they're too remote, too foreign for my taste."

"So…the people of this land have chosen up sides?" Hercules asked, trying to get a sense of the degree of conflict they might expect as they explored further.

"Oh, aye, we have," Corgil confirmed with a sharp nod and a grimace of distaste. "Druids are murdered with no compunction or mercy…men, women and children are taken and sold into slavery, to work either here in the tin mines to the south and west, the iron mines to the north and west, or to be shipped off to great Rome." The older man looked off into the distance, a distance neither Hercules nor Jason could see, for he looked into the past. "There was a time," he mused, "when we'd have a hope of recovering those taken from us. But, too often now, they are taken too far, too well guarded by men trained to the task. We're no strangers to such ways, such outcomes…the Vikings come and either slaughter or steal lives, and we've been known to take slaves from other villages. But…the Romans are different. More organized. In some ways, more ruthless. They fight with cold deliberation, not with the heat of passion."

"Still," Jason reflected, his gaze drifting around the prosperous and seemingly peaceful village, "you seem safe enough…I don't get the feeling of a place under constant siege."

"Not constant, no," the chieftain allowed. "I often wonder if it wouldn't be easier that way. We'd stay more alert, be more prepared for attack. But…months can go by with no incursions, and we grow complacent. Until the next time, and then we wonder why we ever thought we were so far away as to be safe from the Romans. Each year, they move farther north…each year they draw closer. I'm glad I'm an old man…it will not be easy for those who must make the choices for our people in the future."

Thinking about that as he turned his gaze to Jason, Hercules wondered when choices were ever truly easy for those who bore the weight of responsibility and leadership.

* * *

The hunters had ranged a good hour away from the village as they followed the game trails. In the way of their kind through time immemorial, they moved quietly, virtually silently, as they made their stealthy way along ancient paths, taking care not to spook whatever game might be near by. Still, there was a sense of comradery, each taking unobtrusive stock of the others, noting the skill with which they read the signs, the ways they moved like shadows, careful of brittle twigs that might snap underfoot, wary of branches that could swing back suddenly. And, they were pleased with what they saw in one another. The villagers thought now that the tales they'd heard of the Caledonian Boar Hunt, or of Iolaus' practically supernatural abilities as a tracker, had not been exaggerated. And the Greeks understood how the village had been able to table such a feast the night before. They all hunted to live, and that made them professionals, capable and usually highly successful.

It was because they were as good as they were that they had any warning at all of the ambush that awaited them. Iolaus heard the snap of a twig just as he made out the shape of a boot half swept away in the dirt under his fingertips as he knelt to more closely examine the sign. It was fresh. They weren't alone in this forest. He lifted an arm for attention, then put a finger to his lips, wondering even then if they were being watched or if there was time to find out if the others out there were friends or foes. The men with him froze, and melted into shadows, crouching to present smaller silhouettes.

But, it was too late to evade detection.

An arrow arched with a deadly whoosh through the air and impaled itself in the chest of one of the villagers, who screamed once, a short, sharp sound, before crumpling to the ground. They were like fish in a barrel, their attackers having spotted them first, noting their positions, having the advantage of surprise.

But, the villagers and Greeks rallied quickly, rolling to shift position and find new cover even as they drew their own weapons, eyes raking the trees and shadows. Iolaus let one arrow fly, and then another, both finding targets, even as Theseus leapt upon another man, tackling him and rolling to wrestle with him in the dirt. The village hunters could also be deadly warriors and proved their worth, but the sheer weight of numbers was against them. When another villager fell, and then Theseus took an arrow in his side, Iolaus shouted at Zetes and Calais, "Run…back to the village! Get help!"

The brothers paused for a moment, then Zetes, the eldest, signaled his brother to go, and go quickly. There was no need of two messengers when there was so much need for an extra warrior here where the battle was being fought so desperately. His heart in his throat, hating to leave his brother and his friends, knowing Theseus was already down, Calais wheeled and pelted off through the trees. Though the attackers chased him, launching spears and arrows in his wake, they could not catch him, and soon broke off the useless pursuit. By the gods, that man could run!

Iolaus had drawn his sword and was standing over Theseus, guarding him from further attack, facing off against three assailants. With a sinking heart, he recognized the style and skill…two of his opponents were Romans for all they wore the leather and wool of the local islanders. These were not simple raiders or other opportunistic hunters…these were soldiers who knew what they were doing. Even as he fought, Iolaus held some awareness of where the others of his party were and how they were faring, his jaw tightening as he realized they were fighting a losing battle. Zetes already had a sword at his throat, and had dropped his own blade, having little choice in the matter. Theseus was down and barely conscious. Meleager fought like a bull, but like a bull brought down by wolves, he was surrounded until someone at his back clipped his head hard, sending him to the ground, dazed and vulnerable. The villagers fought with desperation, having a better understanding of what they faced if they were taken, but they, too, quickly lost ground, overwhelmed and overcome.

When it was clear to their opponents that Calais had escaped and would be bringing back reinforcements, a voice called out in Latin, sharp with command, "Hold!"

The warriors around Iolaus pulled back marginally, but held their swords up and ready, lest he press his advantage. But Iolaus wasn't prepared to abandon his position over Theseus. Panting, his eyes darted from his attackers to take in the others, seeking the one in charge. A tall man, with blue eyes and short curly black hair, his skin burned a dark bronze, stepped forward. "Surrender," he said, "or we'll kill you all."

"How do I know you won't kill us all anyway?" Iolaus shot back, his voice tight, his eyes flashing resistance.

"Slaves are worthless if they're dead," the Roman stated simply.

A coldness in the pit of his stomach, Iolaus absorbed that information. Wounded men weren't usually worth much more than dead men to those who trafficked in mortal flesh. With a glance down at Theseus, and at Meleager who still seemed stunned, as well as toward one of the villagers with a nasty wound to one arm, Iolaus asked, "What about the wounded?"

"We've no time to worry about them," the Roman replied, clearly impatient to move on before the odds shifted against him.

Cocking his head a little to the side, Iolaus brandished his sword, as he called back, "Then have your men move away from them…"

"Forget them," the other cut in, his face implacable. "They are already dead so far as you are concerned."

"I don't think so," Iolaus replied, his chin coming up in stubborn resistance. "I can't stop you from killing us all, if that's what you decide to do…but I can make it very costly. These men will heal…so, now, you choose. More slaves to fatten your purse, or fewer warriors to take more slaves in the future? What will it be?"

The Roman glared at him then looked away, feeling time run on. The one who'd been knocked out looked sturdy and would easily recover. The one with the wounded arm would also travel with no real difficulty. However, the one on the ground, guarded by the valiant warrior, looked to be in worse shape. Still, if they could get him up and he recovered, the huge man would make a fine slave. Finally, he nodded, "All right…but you will take care of one another and anyone who can't keep up will be killed. Either you surrender now, or all of your friends are dead. Am I clear?"

"Very clear," Iolaus conceded, casting one last glance around the area and seeing that he was the only one without a sword to his throat…he and Theseus. He hated surrendering, but if he didn't, his friends and these villagers were dead men. Sighing, he lowered his sword and tossed it away. Then, ignoring the Romans, he knelt to examine Theseus.

"Give them no help…and you, blondie, remember we need to move on and quickly," the Roman ordered, while his men stood back, their message clear. If the slaves were to all live, they'd have to save one another.

The big Greek was conscious and clearly in considerable pain. "Hang in there, buddy," Iolaus murmured as he eased Theseus out of his shirt and tore it into strips. "I have to break off the shaft," he explained, waiting until Theseus nodded, then doing what had to be done, while the large warrior bit back a groan. Pressing a wad of linen against the wound, Iolaus quickly wrapped strips around his friend's body to anchor it in place. It wasn't enough but it would have to do. It was only too clear that this Roman wasn't about to give him time to remove the arrowhead now, and Theseus would surely bleed to death if it was pulled out and he then had to walk any distance.

Meanwhile, Zetes had moved to check on Meleager, slapping his old comrade's cheek to bring him out of his daze. Holding his aching head, Meleager let Zetes help him to his feet. One of the villagers hastily treated his friend's bleeding arm. As soon as they were done, the interlopers moved quickly to bind their captives' wrists in metal shackles and shoved them roughly away from the area of the battle, setting off at a lope, moving south and west.

* * *

"JASON! HERCULES!" Calais cried as he lunged into the village compound.

Startled, the two heroes rose from the fire, tense and alert. "What's wrong?" Jason demanded, scowling with concern.

"The hunting party was attacked and over run…we need to go back and help them! Hurry!" the fastest runner in Greece panted in rapid explanation.

It was enough.

In seconds, villagers and the other Argonauts had caught up their weapons and were racing behind Calais, back to the site of the battle. They arrived in less than half an hour, less than an hour after Calais had taken off for reinforcements. But they were still too late…the clearing was empty but for the dark splotches of blood on the ground and the body of the villager killed in the ambush.

Pausing only long enough to pick up the direction, they were off again, racing through the shadowed forest, intent upon rescuing their friends. But, the Roman leading the invading force was no fool. He knew pursuit had to be close behind. Rather than trying to stay ahead, knowing the wounded men would slow them down, even if those who were still able-bodied didn't deliberately trip and stumble, he'd gone only another mile before setting up another ambush.

Bound and gagged, tied to trees so they couldn't 'wander off', the captured Argonauts and villagers could only watch in horror as their friends plunged through the forest, making too much noise in their urgency, not taking sufficient care in their anxious worry. Archers waited, bows drawn, arrows notched, ready.

The bravest, the most able and determined were in the lead…and so were the first to fall.

Iolaus screamed into his gag, when Jason crumpled, an arrow in his shoulder…then he choked with desperate helplessness when Hercules went down, an arrow in his chest. "NNNGGGHHH!!!!" he raged against the gag, struggling against his bindings, pounding chained fists into the air, horrified and sickened by the slaughter. He wished he'd fought on, never surrendered, let them kill him…better that than watching this…watching Herc die and be unable to fight back. 'Gods, no…this can't be happening! NOOOOO!!!' he screamed desperately into the chaos of thought and emotion that roiled in his mind, his chest tight as if he was suffocating, his heart ripping apart. 'NOOOO!!!' he wept then, eyes pressed shut against what he could no longer bear to see.

The battle was short…the villagers recognizing the futility of resistance and pulling back, dragging their fallen with them. The Romans and their allies also pulled away, sharp knives quickly severing the bindings of their slaves, hauling them along rapidly into the shadows, disappearing as if they'd never been there but for the blood of the victims they'd left behind.

* * *

Hercules groaned and thrashed weakly, struggling back up out of the darkness, gasping at the pain that lanced through his chest as he fought his way back to consciousness.

"Easy, Hercules," Jason murmured, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder, pressing him back down with a firm gentleness. "You're all right…take it slow."

"Wwha'?" the demigod muttered, wincing at the stab of light, blinking to bring Jason into focus.

"We were ambushed," Jason explained. "I was hit in the shoulder and you took an arrow in the chest."

With a low moan, Hercules lifted a hand to feel the bandages around his body while he tried to make out his surroundings. A small, dark room with a single candle on a side table. A window covered with a drawn curtain made of hide to keep out the cold. Jason beside him. Frowning, his gaze traveled the room again before coming back to rest upon his friend.

"Io-laus?" he gasped, weakly, gritting his teeth against the waves of pain that rolled over him with every breath.

His jaw tight, Jason swallowed before answering huskily, "We'll find him and the others, Hercules. We'll get them back."

For a moment, the demigod couldn't take it in. He stared with incomprehension into Jason's eyes as he struggled to remember and then it came back with a rush. Invaders. Blood on the ground. Ambushed.

"NOOO!!!" he growled, his voice guttural with pain and denial, as he again tried to force himself up. Iolaus had been taken…might be hurt. Needed him.

But, agony ripped through him and he grunted sharply, too weak to resist the hands Jason placed on his shoulders, pushing him back down. "You won't do Iolaus or anyone else any good if you kill yourself!" his stepfather shouted. "Lay down…and stay down."

His hands fisted in frustration and pain, fear for his friend and anger warring for dominance in his eyes, Hercules glared up at Jason. "Have to…help…" he panted, disgusted with his weakness.

"You will…we both will, but not just this minute," Jason tried to soothe him, while he too warred with guilt and grief, fear and frustration at their incapacity. "First, you have to get some of your famous strength back…and then we'll kick butt. You hear me?"

Hercules' nostrils flared as he blew out a hard breath and turned his face away towards the wall. He had to clamp his jaw against the urge to scream in fury, but even as he resisted Jason's words, weakness from blood loss and infection, from the fire that radiated remorselessly from his chest, overcame his will and he felt the darkness reach for him again. 'Nooo,' he protested to the dark that stole over him. 'IOLAUS!' was his last conscious thought.

Jason sat back, exhausted. He should still be in his own bed, but he'd been terrified that Hercules might die of his wound. The infection had been bad and the demigod had laid in a feverish stupor for a week before he'd finally awakened moments ago…if only briefly. Only long enough to realize and remember what had happened.

A week.

And it would be days, maybe another week, maybe more, before there could be any question of he and Hercules following after their friends.

The ex-king of Corinth snorted in hopeless disgust. Follow where? The villagers had sent out a small party to trail the attackers, but had returned three days later. They'd lost the trail at a busy crossroads, the tracks lost on the stone of the new Roman road, but they could all guess where their friends had been taken.

South and west.

Deep into Roman-held lands.

To the mines.

Leaning back on the stool, resting his back against the wall, Jason wiped a weary hand over his face, then rubbed his still aching arm and shoulder. Gods, how had it all gone so wrong, so quickly? Once he'd recovered enough himself to be aware of what had happened, Jason had sought out Mopsis, demanding to know what he saw, what he guessed of the future. But his seer had turned haunted eyes away from him, shoulders slumped in desolation.

"What?" Jason had demanded, gripping the man's shoulder hard, shaking him. "What do you see?"

Mopsis shook his head as he looked back at his captain and breathed out a shuddering sigh. "Nothing good," he muttered. "It's all jumbled, Jason…nothing's clear to me…just images, terrible images. You know that!"

"Are they all still alive?" Jason demanded, unwilling to be put off.

Looking away, Mopsis nodded. "As far as I can tell, yes," he replied. When Jason sagged a little in relief, his seer turned his dark gaze back upon his leader. "Don't Jason," he cautioned. "Don't think it's good news…not for them. I see terrible suffering in dark, tight spaces. I see a whip cutting into already bleeding flesh. I see desperate fighting and pain."

When Jason raised desperate eyes, eyes that begged for some measure of hope, his seer shook his head and again looked away. "I do not see us in that place. They are lost to us, Jason…lost."

That had been three days ago.

Tilting his head back, closing his eyes against the memory of those words, Jason wondered how he was ever going to tell Hercules that he'd lost Iolaus again…maybe forever.

* * *

It had taken two long, terrible days to reach the crossroads. Theseus had needed to be supported most of the way, though the others had managed well enough on their own. Left to himself, Iolaus would have fought and died to avenge Hercules and Jason. But, he wasn't alone and he knew the others were looking to him to lead them. He'd snorted with disgust at that thought. Lead them where? Into captivity? Into slavery? Over and over his mind had relentlessly played out the memory of the ambush, the memory of watching Jason and then Hercules fall. Were they dead? Determinedly, the warrior had pushed that fear aside. He wouldn't, couldn't, accept that either of them had been killed. They had to be all right. Had to be.

To keep himself going, Iolaus concentrated on Theseus, making certain the big man wouldn't be left behind, another corpse to molder in the forest. Fortunately, the wound in his friend's side had been shallow, the arrow slicing along his side, over his ribs, rather than plunging deeply into his body. It was painful but not life threatening. Gathering what herbs he could as they traveled, getting the others to do the same, the captives treated one another's wounds when the Romans allowed them to stop for the night.

The shackles were heavy and chafed their wrists badly…and leg irons had been added to ensure they could make no break for freedom. They were given barely enough gruel and water to survive, whipped when they tripped or faltered, Iolaus and Meleager taking the brunt of the abuse as they tried to protect Theseus and urge him forward. Bravely, the wounded man never complained and did his best to hold to the harsh pace, but loss of blood, and the pain of the arrowhead still lodged in his side, took their toll and he was stumbling badly long before the end of each day's march.

Once, with irritated impatience, a Roman shoved Theseus hard to force him to walk faster. The big man had stumbled and fallen with a groan, only to be kicked by the brutal soldier. Furious, Iolaus had intervened, raising chained wrists to club the Roman sharply on the side of the head, sending him to his knees, then wheeling sharply to kick out furiously at two more that came at him, rolling away, tripping another to bring him down. It was brave, but futile and the mass of men arrayed against him soon overpowered him, holding him tightly as they dragged him to his feet.

Furious, the leader strode forward and backhanded Iolaus' viciously, making his head snap to the side. "Rip off his vest," the Roman commanded the men holding the blond warrior, as he shook out the whip he carried curled on his belt. "Time you learned who is in charge here," he snarled as they bound Iolaus to a tree. Gritting his teeth, his forehead pressed into the rough bark, Iolaus held back the cries of agony that lodged in his throat as the lash bit into his bare back. Another, and another. Cutting his skin, drawing blood. Another lash and then the last. The Roman wanted to punish him, not incapacitate him, so contented himself with only the five strokes.

Gasping, Iolaus staggered upright as they unbound him from the support of the oak. Shaking his head to clear it, he straightened painfully as he gazed around the small clearing. His diversion had been costly but had been worth it. Zetes and Meleager had pulled Theseus to his feet, supporting him. The brief rest while Iolaus held the attention of the Romans hadn't been much, but was enough. He'd be able to continue the long march.

Finally, on the third day, they came to wagons that had been left waiting for the Romans and whatever cargo they managed to haul out of the forest. It was a relief to ride rather than walk, though the realization that they were being carried farther and farther away from rescue weighed heavily on all of them. The villagers who'd been taken captive with them shared their assumptions about where they were being taken, and it did nothing to cheer the Greeks.

From all the villagers had ever heard, the tin mines sounded like a living hell.

A little more than a week later, after they'd rolled through low hills and along narrow valleys, heading ever west and south, the wagons turned sharply to the south along the Roman road. In another day, they'd come to a stark land of high, barren moors…and then they arrived at the mines.

* * *

When Hercules woke again, he found Mabon keeping watch over him, gently wiping the sweat of the broken fever from his face and arms.

"Welcome back, Hercules," the younger man murmured quietly as the stormy blue eyes flickered into consciousness.

"Mabon…" Hercules replied, or tried to, but his voice was rough, his throat parched and too dry for coherence.

Understanding, the Druid held a pewter cup of cool water to his lips, supporting his head as he drank gratefully.

"How long has it been?" the demigod asked, his mind immediately turning to Iolaus and the need to go after his friend.

"Nine days," Mabon replied calmly, though he knew the heartache his words would bring.

"Nine…!" Hercules gasped, twisting as if to get up, holding one arm tight across his chest, but still too weak to manage on his own. Frustrated, angry, his head and shoulders flopped back onto the cot, his eyes on the ceiling as he raged within his mind at his helplessness. Iolaus needed him. He couldn't just lay around here…he had to MOVE!

The Druid studied him as he wrung out the cloth and wiped it again over Hercules' forehead, brushing back the long damp hair. He'd shaved the demigod earlier in the day, had washed that hair the day before, in an effort to bring comfort…in the desire to sooth the fevered and restless demigod. "Your friend lives," Mabon told him then and Hercules' eyes jerked to meet his. "They all live."

Closing his eyes, Hercules allowed some of the tension to leave his body and he dragged in a long breath, ignoring the tearing feeling in his chest. He'd had chest wounds before, he knew what they felt like. It would heal. It wasn't important. "Where are they?" he asked, trusting this Mabon to know, as his counterpart in Eire had known what transpired with those he had cared about.

"They've been taken to the Roman tin mines," the Druid replied, sighing as Hercules winced at the thought of what his friends must be enduring.

"I have to go after them," the demigod muttered, determined to save them.

"That is not your path," Mabon contradicted…and waited for the explosion that was not long in coming.

"WHAT!" demanded his suddenly enraged patient. "What do you mean, 'not my path'? I will not abandon them!" Hercules seethed through gritted teeth.

Sitting back, Mabon crossed his arms as he studied the demigod. "If you follow your heart now, you will fail," he finally said, his voice firm, even stern. "There are scores of mines, thousands of slaves…you'd never find him and if you ever got close, the Romans might well kill them all and you as well. You must go another way."

Narrowing his eyes, forcing himself to contain his anger and frustration with these cryptic words, Hercules demanded, "Would you just spit it out…what are you trying to tell me?"

Turning his head away, staring into the flame as if he was seeing something there, the Druid replied quietly, "Your Anam Cara has his own path to follow, his own deeds to perform. Your homeland has been laid waste by the plagues that swept over it in the last year. Your people are starving. You and as many of your friends as possible must take food to them…cattle."

"Let them get their own damned cattle," Hercules growled. The people of Greece had driven Iolaus away …and it was Iolaus who was his first concern. "I've got better things to do. I have to go after Iolaus."

"No," Mabon murmured, his voice little more than a whisper as he turned his steady gaze back to Hercules. "Your gods demand another service…"

"The gods can rot…" Hercules intervened.

But Mabon cut him off. Sharply, his voice rising to be heard over the demigod's anger, the Druid lectured, "Listen to me! Listen and understand me clearly. If you go after Iolaus now, you will not be able to save him. You may never be able to save him. But…there is one chance. Your gods, actually a specific goddess…Demeter? I think that's her name…anyway…she demands that her people be fed. But, in return for this labour, you will earn something in return. You will be given information on where to find your Anam Cara. Love has won this single chance for you…I can not say it any plainer."

Frustrated, Hercules seethed with anger. The damned gods. "You're suggesting that I leave Iolaus here and go back to Greece? Do you know how long it will take to get there and then return? While Iolaus and my other friends, and your friends as well, suffer the gods know what in some filthy mine? Where are these damned cattle anyway?" he demanded, unwilling to accept what he was hearing.

"The cattle are across the narrow sea, in Europa…I will give you a map to the lands of Geryon. Rest assured, Hercules, by the time you fulfill your task, there will be no need to return to these lands. Your friends will no longer be here," Mabon replied, unable to keep compassion from his voice. It was a terrible thing to be separated from one's Anam Cara…it tore the soul apart. But it was necessary…there was no choice. This son of a foreign god had to be made to understand that or he could lose what he most valued, and lose himself as well.

"Where will they be?" Hercules asked then, confused, uncertain.

"That is what your goddess will share with you," Mabon replied. "Hercules…you have been sorely injured, you are weak and need time to recover. Even your great strength is not inexhaustible. When the time comes, you must be whole or you will not succeed…even then, the risks will be great, perhaps impossible."

Pushing a weary hand through his hair, wiping his face, Hercules sighed. Gods, he hated this. Hated the obscure messages and half-truths. Hated the games. Hated not knowing what was happening to Iolaus…what was going to happen in the future. Hated being dangled like a puppet on a string. HATED ALL OF IT!

But, the hatred could not silence reason. However they got their knowledge, druids had a wisdom he didn't understand. Mabon was telling him he'd fail if he didn't do things the way they were set out for him, if he didn't follow this specific path.

Failure, in his mind, meant Iolaus would surely die.

And that he could not risk.

Forcing a calm he couldn't feel, an acceptance that was grudging at best, the demigod sighed in resignation. "Draw your map," he grated. "I'll be leaving as soon as I can stand."

* * *

"Gods, Tartarus would be better than this," Iolaus grunted to himself as he drove the sharpened tip of the short-handled pick into the wall of the narrow tunnel he was scrunched into. It was so dark, he could barely see…and hot! Though the land above was damp and cold, haunted by perpetual tendrils of fog, the mine was stifling. The sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes, and ran in runnels over his sparsely clothed body, turning the grime that coated him into a slick of muddy grunge. His hands, knees and elbows were calloused and covered with half-healed gouges and scrapes. The collar of iron around his neck, the shackles around his wrists and ankles had long ago rubbed his skin raw…and the thin wounds that striped his back added to his misery. The salt of his sweat stung sharply in each of the many and varied open abrasions and cuts, making him curse in futility and barely suppressed rage.

"I hate dark, closed spaces!" he grated, his voice rough, his throat parched. "I hate mines, and mine shafts. I hate being scared that the walls will crush me. I HATE BEING A SLAVE!" Though the thoughts were intense, even shrieked within his mind, his voice was low and bitter.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him coming apart at the seams.

Them. The damned Romans. The guards and overseer. The ones with the whips and the chains. The ones who laughed when someone stumbled, glad of the excuse to mete out more abuse. The ones who withheld food and water as punishment…or just because they felt like it. Brutish, hardly seeming human, they played the role of gods in the miserable lives of the slaves and relished every moment of it. Gods…Iolaus hated them, too. Hated their indifference, their cruelty in allowing such misery to even exist.

He'd tried to keep track of time, the passing of the days into weeks, until the months blurred. Tried to hold onto the conviction that Hercules and Jason would come for them, would kill these miserable bastards and break these damned chains apart.

But, no one had come.

And that terrified him.

Because it meant Herc was dead.

And he couldn't stand that thought, couldn't bear it, wouldn't face it.

So, he wallowed in hate, willing himself to survive until the day he broke free and meted out his own punishment for all they had suffered.

Punishment for the villagers who had died, one after the other, brutalized, starved, broken, unable to endure the hopelessness of this hellish existence.

Punishment for the children who were shoved into the mine, worked until they, too, died from neglect and abuse, exhausted, old far beyond their years, with eyes that that lost the innocent shine of childhood long before.

Punishment for Zetes, who'd gone mad in the darkness, unable to endure it any longer, attacking the guards with his bare hands, though he had to have known it was suicide. It had happened three days ago, just as they'd left the mine shaft and stumbled up into the chill of the evening. One of the guards had been whipping a child and Zetes just couldn't stand to watch it any longer. He'd attacked and using the chains that bound his wrists as a garrote, had killed the brute. But, there were other guards, and they descended with vicious retribution. Iolaus had tried to help his friend, lashing out, kicking them away, but there were too many, always too many for a weakened and bound slave to defeat. Zetes had been run through with a spear, dying instantly…and they'd hauled Iolaus off to whip him into unconsciousness.

Punishment for the hunger and thirst, for the repeated whippings, for the filth…for driving him into these terrible, dark, narrow spaces day after day, until he trembled with the effort of holding back his screams of unreasoning terror.

Punishment for having killed Hercules and Jason.

Given even half a chance to mete out the punishment he hungered to inflict, he was determined that he'd kill as many as he could before they killed him in their turn. So it was suicide. So what? This wasn't living…this was being dead and being too stubborn to lie down and quit breathing.

With every stroke of his pick, his thoughts hammered in his head, his blood heated by the desire for revenge. Soon…it would have to be soon. Before he was too weak. Just one chance, one chance to grab a sword from one of those bastard guards…one chance. That was all he needed.

* * *

The sun was high and the sky clear, the wind steady but gentle as it filled the sails. But, despite the pleasant brightness and warmth of the day, Jason's face was bleak with memory as he looked at the low hills that bordered the narrow strait of the Dardenelles. Sighing, he wiped a hand over his mouth and chin, shaking his head as he remembered back over the past weeks.

Following Mabon's painted leather map, they'd sailed across the narrow, stormy sea to the mainland of Europa and down a long river, first through low, marshy lands that flooded with the tides, and further along, through forested plains, and then around long bends as the water curved through narrow valleys cut into high rolling hills. After four days, they'd rowed to the shore, tying up the Argo and left a skeleton crew to guard the vessel as the rest of them moved inland, to the land of Geryon.

It had taken another day to reach their destination. Three more to defeat the determined opposition. Wincing in memory, Jason reflected that the presence of two giants hadn't helped, or that serpent, dragon-like monster. Thank the gods, at least it couldn't fly.

Hercules had healed some during the journey, but still was far from his full strength when they'd had to go into battle. But he'd fought like a man possessed, ripping whole trees from their roots to use as clubs to batter the giants into submission. Leaping like a madman, hair flying, eyes blazing, teeth bared, onto the back of that damned monster…dragging it's head back with the sheer strength of his will, oblivious of the blood pouring down his chest from the re-opened wound, while Jason, Calais and Periclymenus thrust their spears into the belly of the beast until it stopped writhing and shrieking its fury, flopping dead to the earth…damned near crushing the three of them in the process. Ides and Argos, along with the other sailors had held off the warriors who'd been charged with the guarding of the massive herd until the heroes had dispatched the primary threats.

And then they'd fought until the ground had run red with blood, hating their role as raiders, but knowing their countrymen were dying for want of this meat and milk on the hoof. Knowing friends were lost in some living hell in the depths of a foreign mine unless they were victorious here and now.

So they'd fought…and they'd won.

As the last of the defenders ran off over the hills, and the sun was finally settling into the west, Hercules stood, exhausted, trembling as he struggled to remain upright. Jason, oblivious to the deep gash on his own arm, or the shoulder that was once again also bleeding, limped over to his old friend, barely arriving in time to cushion Hercules' as he crumpled to the ground.

"Damn it," sighed the Argonaut, seeing the froth of blood on Hercules' lips. Calling for help, he set about tending his friend's wounds…only fainting himself once he was certain they had done all they could for the demigod.

The next morning, they'd split the herd, Jason taking as many as he figured would fit onto the Argo, determinedly ignoring the little voice in his head that warned him of the smell he'd never really ever be able to wash away once he was able to finally unload the beasts in Greece. Hercules took the rest of the massive herd and headed overland to the south-east. His would be the longer journey.

Jason hadn't seen him since. Together with Phoebe, Mopsis, Archivus and Argos, along with a handful of sailors, he'd cruised the Argo down the full length of what seemed to be an endless system of rivers, until finally they came to the Black Sea. Keeping well away from the coast, and the Persians who lurked on it, Jason held a steady course south, passing through the Bosphorus Strait and finally had arrived at the strait that would lead them back into the Aegean.

In another four days, they'd arrive at the harbour in Corinth.

Rubbing his neck, he began to work out what he'd say to Iphicles. Sighing, he scowled, frowning heavily. His stepson would not be happy to learn that Iolaus had been taken, that Hercules had been badly injured and had still been bleeding the last time Jason had seen the demigod.

No, Iphicles wouldn't be at all happy at the news Jason was bringing.

* * *

Everything about this journey reminded Hercules of how much he hated farming, how much he hated cattle and most particularly, cattle dung. It reeked, the animals reeked…and there were so blasted many of them that they scattered for a mile in either direction, having to be harried over hills, across rivers, practically shoved through forests, bullied from meadows where they'd prefer to simply graze.

This gods-forsaken journey was taking FOREVER!

And every step of the way, the demigod's imagination plagued him with images of Iolaus trapped and crushed in a mine cave-in, or whipped to within an inch of his life, or starved until he was little more than leathery skin and bone. He cursed the cattle, and even the men with him, in frustration…having to grapple with his temper and his fear, to apologize. But, Calais needed no apology, nor did the others.

They understood.

Their imaginations were plaguing them, too.

So, they harried the beasts, driving them ever onward. Days, weeks and finally months dragged past, wearing on their nerves, drawing haggard lines on their faces. Exhausting, endless miles.

But, they never stopped, except to sleep and sometimes eat. Onward they plodded, ignoring the weariness and aching of muscles until those muscles grew strong and sinewy…onward, ever onward they pressed, toward Greece.

They fought back bandits, cursed the wind and rain that turned the earth to sloppy mud under their feet, slowing them down. Trudging with grim determination, they were unaware of, and could have cared less, about the legend they were building behind them…the legend of a demigod who drove an impossibly large herd of cattle all across Europe and down through Macedonia, into Greece.

Finally, finally, Hercules looked up one day and recognized the land around him. He and Iolaus had been here in their youth, long years ago. Gritting his teeth, he shoved a recalcitrant cow forward…it couldn't be more than another two weeks until he reached the foothills of Olympus.

After that, Demeter could do whatever she wanted with these stupid, filthy beasts.

After that, he was going after Iolaus…and nothing on this earth was going to stop him from getting his best friend back.

* * *

Finally, the longed for day came. Theseus had gotten his strength back, his wound finally healed, miraculously given the dearth of nourishing food and the filth in which they lived. Meleager was almost wild-eyed with his rage and bursting need to crack more than a few heads. Iolaus had gone silent, watching, waiting, eyes hard and jaw tight…his friends watched him warily, knowing danger when they saw it.

But the guards and the overseer were blind with their power, careless in their arrogance. It had only been a matter of time, but they had not known the manner of men they held captive in chains…hadn't realized that death was stalking them, waiting for a single opening, a single chance to strike.

It was evening, and the slaves had been dragged from the mines, sick with exhaustion, weak with hunger. Kicked and whipped, they were driven into the rough line that snaked passed the filthy, grit encrusted cauldron for the miserly and sour gruel the overseer called food. A child near the end of the line stumbled, and a guard turned, lifting his whip, forgetting for a moment the angry men behind him…thinking them too weak to be any threat.

Theseus whirled around, lifting his chained hands up and over the guard's head, then tightening the iron links around the Roman's throat, choking him. Iolaus moved like greased lightning, dipping low under the thrashing guard's arms to pull his sword from its sheath while Meleager wrenched the whip from the hapless man's dying hand.

It all happened so fast, the other guards didn't notice until it was too late. Exhaustion forgotten, weakness overcome by the fire of fury, the three heroes went after the brutal men who'd held them hostage so long. Theseus grabbed the sword of the first guard Iolaus killed, while Meleager held off two others with his whip until his friends could move in, then he too grabbed a sword from one of the newly fallen. Like avenging Furies, they cut through all resistance, wild with their need for freedom and revenge. Had the guards or the half-mad overseer begged for mercy, they might not even have been heard, so loud did the blood pound in the heads of the avenging warriors.

But, no quarter was asked…no quarter given.

Until, finally, in a haze of blood, it was over. Grimly, the three heroes looked at the fallen, and swallowed the bile that rose in their throats at the sight of the carnage they had wrought. But, they could feel no grief or guilt. These men had killed the innocent and helpless, had reveled in their unholy power…and paid the price for it.

It was just.

It was done.

Bending to retrieve the heavy loop of keys from the overseer's belt, Iolaus unshackled his friends and was unchained in turn, feeling an aching relief to be rid of the heavy, hated chains. Then, they turned and freed the others.

"Go on," Iolaus told the other slaves. "Go home."

For a moment, the haggard, weak men and children simply stared numbly at their saviours. Then, with a shout, they were all yelling their gratitude, tears running down their faces. They were free. Finally free.

Like a river in flood, the former slaves poured out over the barren moor, disappearing into the night as they raced away from the hell they'd known. Though their speed faltered after the first mile, too weak to sustain the staggering, almost mindless flight across the rough ground, none stopped lest more Romans come and set out after them, recapturing them…and no doubt killing them in retribution for the lives of the bestial guards.

Iolaus, Meleager and Theseus waited to make sure all the others had gone before they too set out, heading north and toward the coast. They paused a moment at the common grave, where the bodies of dead slaves were tossed and covered with lime. Silent, their aching hearts bid their farewell to Zetes, and then they turned and strode away without a single backward glance.

It was too dangerous to remain long in Britannia…it was too securely held by the Romans. They needed a ship, and they needed one soon.

For two nights, they traveled, hiding during the day, taking turns keeping watch. Finally, they could smell the sea, and cresting a hill, they could even see it in the distance. So close.

But, Fortune had again turned her face away from them.

A large contingent of Romans had arrived the morning after their escape to find the carnage they'd left behind. The contingent comprised relief for the guards and overseer, and included half a century of men who herded new slaves toward the mines of Cornwall. Within an hour, the search for the runaways was on.

As the three heroes made their cautious way down toward the coast, they could hear the rumble of hooves, feel the tremble of the ground beneath their feet…and hear the howling of the tracking hounds. They ran, desperate for cover, but there was none in this bleak land, until finally, breathless, they knew there was no escape.

Wheeling, they turned, back to back, swords up and ready, they waited for their enemies to reach them.

The hounds, maddened by the hunt, lunged forward ahead of the horses, leaping with bared fangs, claws extended, but swords flashed, silver streaks in the moonlight, and the howling of the ravaging beasts turned to whelps and then to silence. Grimly, the three Argonauts stood tense, chins high, jaws tight. They knew they'd die here…but that was all right. Better than going back to the damned mine. Better than being slaughtered as helpless slaves.

They were warriors. They'd die as warriors.

But…the Romans were less ready than the hapless hounds to rush toward certain death. They drew up their mounts as they came closer, circling warily around the three desperate men.

"So…it was the three of you. I should have known," a familiar voice cut through the night.

Looking up, Iolaus recognized the Roman who'd taken them in the north. "You have no hostages this time," the blond warrior observed calmly, his sword weaving a mesmerizing circle in the glint of moonlight.

"No…so I see," the Roman centurion observed thoughtfully as he studied them. Starved to skeletal gauntness, weakened by months of abuse, these three had still managed to wreak the havoc he'd found back at the mine. Warriors like this were wasted in the mines when there was somewhere so much more appropriate for the likes of them.

They'd be worth a fortune in Rome, as gladiators in Caesar's circus.

"Hold back," he called to his men. "Keep them circled." Turning to the young man who rode beside him, he murmured quietly, "Marcus…you've been practicing with the net. In a few hours, they will weaken, their muscles will grow stiff in the cold, their reflexes will slow, however brave they might be exhaustion will overtake them…bag them then. I want these three alive and unharmed."

* * *

"DEMETER!" Hercules cried out as he faced the snowcapped heights of Olympus. "Here are your damned cattle! WHERE IS IOLAUS?"

"No need to shout, Hercules," his aunt informed him dryly as she flashed into view. "There's nothing wrong with my hearing."

"Fine," he snapped back, the others watching warily, unable to see the goddess but understanding from his stance and expression that she had arrived. "Where are our friends?"

"Always in a hurry, aren't you," she sighed, but when his eyes flashed, she relented. He'd performed the labour demanded of him, and now she owed him the information he sought. "You'll find them in Rome, Hercules…they are slaves to Caesar, gladiators in the circuses that arrogant fool employs to entertain the mob he calls 'citizens'."

"Rome?" Hercules gasped. The center of the Empire. For a moment, his heart sank, but then his resolve returned in full measure. Nodding, he turned away.

"Go to Naxion, to the harbour there. Your friend, Jason, is waiting for you and is ready to sail as soon as you arrive," she called after him.

The men were already racing to the southeast, their long strides eating the final miles.

Rome.

They could be there within two weeks if the winds held.

'Hang on, Iolaus,' Hercules thought, "I'm coming for you. Make sure you're still alive when I get there…'

* * *

Iolaus rolled his shoulders, loosening stiff muscles and rubbed the back his neck as he watched Meleager wrap a bandage around Theseus' arm. So far, they'd been lucky. It had been more than two months since they'd again been captured, caught in the folds of the large net that had looped over them, seemingly out of nowhere. Though they'd struggled, lashing at the bindings with their swords, it hadn't been all that hard for the hardened and strong Romans to overpower three starved and exhausted men.

They were slaves again…but at least they were pampered slaves this time. Gladiators had to be fit to give good entertainment. So they'd been bathed, their wounds tended to, well fed, allowed to rest and recoup their strength. When they were at rest, their limbs were bolted to the wall of the vessel that they were shipped on to Italy, and then to the walls of their grim, stark, little cells.

When they were training, rebuilding muscle that had wasted during the long months in the mine, they were heavily guarded, their weapons blunt while their overseers held sharpened steel.

But, they were patient men…their time would come.

Fortune was bound to remember them, and remember to smile on them again.

Their time would come.

Grinning a little at Meleager's efforts, Iolaus jibed softly, "So, can you handle that, or do we need to take a trip to the healers' hut?"

Snorting, Meleager cast him a withering glance while Theseus rolled his eyes. "Oh, I think I can handle this little scratch, Iolaus. What do you think, Theseus?"

Impatient with the attention, irritated that he'd let Iolaus get under his guard enough to have inadvertently drawn a little blood, Theseus scowled with pretended threat at his sparring partner. "You got lucky today, little one. It won't happen again."

Straightening to his full height, which brought him almost to Theseus' shoulders, Iolaus scowled back as he growled, "Who are you calling 'little'?"

Reaching out to ruffle those ridiculous curls, pulling away from Meleager who swore as the bandage unwound, Theseus laughed, "You, Iolaus…that's who!"

Giggling, Iolaus ducked away and rolled in under the large hand that overshot its mark, thrusting out a leg and bringing Theseus crashing to the dust. Darting away before he could be caught and held by the larger man's bulk, Iolaus crowed, "Well, stop it! You know it annoys me."

Meleager stood with his hands on his hips, watching them play like puppies. Laughing, he moved in, grabbing them both by an arm as he said, "Enough! Now I have to clean you both up! Rolling around in the dirt like kids…"

But they both turned on him then, tickling until his knees were weak and he slipped to the ground, trying to squirm away and finally begging for mercy.

They didn't care that the guards were watching them, acting as if the Romans were invisible, of no concern and less interest.

And the Romans watched, not missing the lesson being given here or those given earlier in the practice sessions of the preceding weeks. Nor did they ever forget what they'd heard these men had done to their guards in the wilds of Britannia.

These were skilled warriors, confident and unafraid…and they were friends who would stand by one another to the death.

The Romans kept their distance, glad they wouldn't be facing these particular warriors in the arena…or anywhere else, for that matter.

* * *

Jason had sailed directly to Corinth with his load of cattle, figuring Demeter could do what she liked with them…as a goddess, surely it couldn't really matter to her where the beasts were taken, so long as they were available to her. Leaving the ship as soon as it docked, he set out immediately for the palace, to share all that had transpired with Iphicles.

As he'd known, Iph was far from pleased at the way things had gone during their adventure beyond Greece's shores. The King's face had darkened into a heavy scowl and his eyes flashed with anger when he heard how Iolaus and the others had been taken by the Romans, and he cursed softly when Jason relayed how Hercules had been constrained to do a favour for the gods before he could have any hope of winning Iolaus back. His jaw tight, his eyes focused on some faraway place, he wondered by what right the gods continued to torment his brothers by birth and friendship…wondered why it seemed always their lot to be at risk, to suffer.

He was glad he was only a king, not a hero who seemed destined to be the lightning rod that forever attracted the gods' needs and wrath.

Once Jason had finished and faltered into a weary and discouraged silence, Iph regarded his stepfather for a long moment while he thought it through. Jason looked exhausted, as if he'd been whipped, as in fact he had been, by the events of life beyond his control, by the ever-present deep anxiety for his friends and his own sense of helplessness to make it all right.

"How long do you think it will be before Hercules and the others deliver the herd to Demeter?" Iphicles asked.

Shaking his head, Jason rubbed his lip as he considered the question. "They've a long way to travel…six, maybe seven months any way, I'd guess," he answered wearily, thinking about Iolaus and the others, imagining what they must be suffering and would continue to endure during that time. And that was assuming that they'd manage to stay alive.

Six months as a slave in a mine could be a very long time.

Tapping his fingers absently on the arm of his chair, Iphicles pondered the situation. Thinking aloud, he mused, "You said the Mabon indicated Iolaus and the others would not be kept at the mine indefinitely, but would be moved elsewhere, outside of Britannia…yes?" When Jason nodded, he continued reflectively, "Where else would they be taken? I suppose the possibilities are endless, but…they are warriors. How does Rome make use of warriors who will not become her mercenaries?"

Frowning, Jason began to realize where Iph was going with this. "Gladiators?"

"Of course, gladiators…to fight in the Circus Maximus…in Rome," Iphicles replied, his voice tight with loathing for the barbaric Roman fascination with games of death. Convinced that this was the mostly likely scenario, Iphicles continued, "So…let's assume they have been, or will be, taken to Rome. How can we free them from the heart of the Empire?"

"Gods," Jason sighed, feeling his sense of despair increase as he contemplated the possibility Iph was laying out before him. "Even if all of Greece united, and we could put every available soldier in the field…to storm Rome herself? Impossible…"

"A war would be impossible…and much as those four men are beloved heroes, all of Greece could not be moved to their rescue, not at the risk of Rome's wrath in return," Iphicles agreed somberly. Then, his eyes brightened with an idea and he began to smile, much as a wolf might be imagined to smile as it sights its prey. "But…we don't want a war. We want a rapid and effective infiltration and escape plan. While no doubt Hercules will have his own ideas, I think I might be able to loan the two of you some assets to work with."

"Assets? What kind of assets?" Jason demanded, wondering where his stepson was going with this.

"An elite strike force of soldiers who can pass as Romans, dressed as praetorian guards, to infiltrate the heart of the enemy's camp and confuse them…and perhaps to escort our people out," Iph replied, his eyes glinting like flint igniting the rage he felt and the retribution he sought as the King of Corinth and the official sponsor of the Argonauts. These were his men who were held captive, whether they would see themselves that way or not was of no matter. He'd helped finance their journey…and he'd do all he could to help bring them all safely home again.

* * *

As he laid on the straw pallet in the darkened cell and stared up through the arched barred window to the narrow strip of ebony sky littered with stars, Iolaus wondered how much longer his charade of life would go on. He could keep it together in the sunlight, when Meleager and Theseus were watching. He could pretend then, for them, that he wasn't dead inside. But, in the darkness and the silence all he could see and hear was that arrow striking Herc's chest, driving his best friend to the ground. In those empty hours, he could feel the pain spread in his own chest, feel the air lock in his throat…feel the emptiness of a life without Hercules in it.

He wondered why he'd been granted life again, why he'd been sent back for another chance at Hercules' side, if this was all there was…this sense of overwhelming, terrifying loss that threatened to drive him mad. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, impatiently brushing the moisture from his eyes, Iolaus rolled onto his side and tried to drive away the memory, tried to tell himself that Hercules, and Jason as well, had survived. That they were all right…somewhere.

But, as the weeks and months had dragged past, almost a year gone now, it was hard to hold onto that belief. Because, if Herc was alive, Iolaus knew his friend would never have abandoned him. Hercules had stormed into Hades' realm for him, had tracked the ancient paths to a foreign god's lair to try to find him, had never really stopped grieving his loss in Sumeria or to the Light. Gods, Herc had wrestled Death itself for him, sacrificing himself to save his best friend one last time. Hercules would never have been defeated by a bunch of Romans and a tin mine somewhere in the wilds of southwestern Britannia.

If he was alive, why hadn't he come?

Sighing, Iolaus stretched and stood to pace the narrow cell. He was strong again, they all were. The improved conditions, better food and athletic training had restored all of them to a fitness they frankly hadn't known in years. There was no evidence left of their miserably debilitated condition after the months in the mine…no evidence but for the slave collars that still adorned their necks. Muscles rippled under sun-bronzed skin, reflexes were honed, skills with all manner of weaponry refreshed to an enviable level of professional expertise. For what? To murder some helpless slaves, victims of Rome's appetite for blood, for the amusement of a Caesar and the bored souls that called themselves the most sophisticated and powerful people on the face of the earth?

He couldn't do it.

There was nothing they could ever do to him, or threaten him with, to persuade him to kill innocents to feed the empty souls of Rome. He smiled grimly to himself as he thought about how it was simply assumed that gladiators who faced death if they failed to entertain would kill to save themselves. Well, they'd be getting a surprise when they thrust him out onto those hot sands…send him a Roman warrior and yes, he'd fight. He might even be persuaded to fight some poor, wretched animal for survival. But hostages from the far reaches of the Empire? Other men like him or his friends who had been given no choice, with whom he had no argument? No…he knew he just couldn't do it.

He didn't want to live that much.

If Hercules had indeed been killed, he wasn't sure he wanted to live at all.

Iolaus knew they'd be moved from this training camp to the city in a matter of days. Using the tried and true strategy of the Roman aristocracy, Caesar was planning a festival to distract the poor from their lot. Wine would flow freely and bread would be in abundance, there would be music and games, and at the culmination of the festival, there would be the entertainment of blood in the large oval stadium, floored with sand, open to the glare of the hot Roman sun. The warrior shook his head, wondering at the hideous deterioration of a people who called themselves the greatest civilization the world had ever known but who seemed only to be able to amuse themselves by indulging their morbid fascination with the violent death of the Empire's innocent victims.

For all that he knew, he likely only had a few days of life remaining to him. But, in the silent darkness Iolaus could admit to himself, if not to his friends, that he was relieved that his now seemingly empty existence was almost over. He wasn't alive, not really. Oh, he breathed, and spoke, fought and ate, feigned laughter, even slept sometimes, but that wasn't life. His heart had known no real joy since…well since he'd felt his soul ripped from his body when he'd seen Hercules felled by that arrow. Nor could he imagine feeling joy again in this life. Without Hercules, he had no purpose, his reason for being was gone. In one part of his mind, he knew how stupid that was, that he could still go on, make a difference, but he felt hollow, as if the best part of himself had been torn away and he simply didn't want to exist any longer.

It hurt too much.

Staring up at the stars, Iolaus wondered where his soul would end up…would he return to Hades' realm, or the Light? Would Herc be there, waiting for him? Gods, what would he do if Hercules wasn't there? Was Hercules alive or dead? Could he risk letting his own life slip away if he wasn't absolutely sure that his friend had already died?

Iolaus sighed heavily as he pushed his fingers through his hair and then rubbed the back of his neck. If only he could know for certain, one way or another…he'd kept going this long because he'd kept hoping, against all the odds…but he was so tired, and it was getting so hard to hold onto the illusion of hope.

Snorting at his own capacity for self-deception, in the darkness, he finally acknowledged he'd given up that hope a long time ago, and had held on only because he felt he owed it to his friends, to somehow find a way to help them escape. For himself, he no longer cared. He felt too lost for it to matter anymore whether he was enslaved or free, alive or dead.

"You should sleep," Meleager's voice came quietly from the next cell. Though his voice was low, Iolaus could hear the concern in the deep tones and winced. Evidently, he wasn't doing as great a job as he'd hoped in keeping the depth of his despair from his friends.

"Sorry," he murmured, returning to his pallet to lie down and stare up at the rough plastered ceiling. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't," his old friend responded, then decided to continue, to touch on the subject Iolaus had refused to discuss since the day they'd first been taken captive. It was clear to both Meleager and Theseus that Iolaus' veneer of control was crumbling, the façade no longer sustainable…too much time had passed. Still, they both believed one could not give up hope, lest the despair lead down a dead-end road. So, he took a breath and murmured, "Hercules might still be alive, Iolaus. You can't just give up."

Snorting softly, Iolaus rubbed his mouth and jaw. "I know," he responded, but his strangled voice was dull, without hope. "Don't worry…" he began to reassure his friend, but faltered. What could he say? 'Don't worry, I'll be fine'? It wasn't true. 'Don't worry, I won't let you down'? Well…he hadn't yet.

"We'll find a way out of this," Meleager whispered softly, conscious of the guard snoring at the end of the corridor. "It's just a matter of time…we need to stick together, and we'll win our way to freedom…"

"Yeah," Iolaus sighed, wondering if it was true. The further they went into the depths of the Empire, and the closer they came to the centre of its power, the harder escape was going to be. "Maybe when they're transporting us…" he ventured.

"Worth keeping in mind," Theseus rumbled quietly, surprising them both who'd thought him asleep.

Much as Iolaus wanted to just chuck it all, give up, or at least take on the guards and die fighting as Zetes had in the mine, he knew he couldn't be completely irresponsible. Together, they might stand a chance of winning their way free. Herc would despise him if he gave up before doing all he could to help the others get away…he would despise himself for such cowardly action. Being there to help the others fight their way to freedom had been the purpose he'd held onto for so many long, dreary months, even when all else seemed hopeless. Bleakly, he knew he had to keep going. Just for a while longer, he had to stay alert, stay sharp and ready to give it all he had one more time. Maybe he could save their lives even if he could care less about his own.

"You know, if you guys would just 'shut up', maybe I could get some sleep," he jibed half-heartedly. But it was enough to reassure them. He heard the muted rumbles of restrained laughter and the scrunch of dry straw as they settled onto their own pallets. Crossing his arms over his chest, he swallowed hard. He appreciated their concern and was touched by it. They'd all lost a friend in Zetes, and if they ever got out of this mess someone was going to have to tell Calais that his brother was gone. The thought steadied Iolaus, reminding him that he wasn't the only one who had ever suffered, that he had little right to indulge in self-pity.

But, he sighed as he rolled over onto his side. Once again staring into the darkness, he knew he was beginning to understand something of what Hercules had suffered after Sumeria. Gritting his jaw, he fought the despair and tried to hold onto the vestiges of hope that lingered still in his tattered soul.

Herc had gotten him back from the Light…maybe, by some miracle, he could find Hercules again one day. If he didn't give up. If he held onto hope…

'Maybe' was all he had to hold onto.

* * *

Jason had been waiting for more than a week by the time the lookouts spotted their colleagues racing down over the far hills and across the narrow plain to the spit of sand bordering on the Aegean. A skiff had been let down from the side of the Argo, and was waiting to row them rapidly back to the ship that was riding on the tide just beyond the rocks. Rope ladders were let down and the Argonauts hauled themselves up even as the anchor was pulled from the seabed and the sails were unfurled to capture the wind. Before Hercules reached the high quarterdeck, Jason was already guiding his ship away from the shore, headed south into the main sea currents that would take them around Greece into the Ionian Sea.

"Jason!" Hercules called as he bounded up the plank steps. "Thank you…"

"For what? Being here?" the captain called back, even as his eyes scanned the horizon before coming back to the dark gaze of his old friend. "Where else would I be? There are friends waiting for us."

"Friends who have already had to wait too long," the demigod agreed solemnly.

"Uh huh," grunted the ex-King of Corinth. "So…it's Rome, then?"

"How did you know?" Hercules demanded, startled.

"Just a guess…what did Demeter tell you?" Jason replied with a shrug.

"She said they are being held as gladiators," Hercules answered succinctly, his eyes raking the sea, then the sky, impatient to be there. "How long?"

"A week, maybe a little more, depending on the winds," Jason replied with a sigh. He understood the impatience Hercules felt, he shared it. "So, how do you want to play this once we get there?"

Chewing on his lip, Hercules swallowed as he reconsidered all the possible approaches he'd imagined for what was, in all honesty, an impossible task. Rescue four friends from the closed fist of the Empire…free four gladiators from the centre of Rome's might? They were mad to even try. Looking up at Jason, he shook his head. "I can't ask all of you to do this…the odds against us are too high."

Jason blew out an angry breath as he thundered in return. "You think you're the only one who cares, who is willing to risk anything necessary to get them back? Damn it, Hercules" he snapped, out of patience, "…if you don't have a plan, I do."

The demigod looked away for a moment, suitably chastised, and when his gaze returned to Jason's some of the tension had left his shoulders and humour glinted in his eyes for the first time in almost a year. "You have a plan, do you? Well, good… because, frankly Jase, I'm open to ideas."

Smiling a little in return, the ex-King chuckled then, suddenly glad he and Iphicles had had time to prepare for this assault on the mighty Roman Empire. "All right," he sighed then, and beckoned one of his crew to take the helm. Leading Hercules toward the rail, the Captain of the Argo leaned against it as he shared the idea he and Iph had refined together. "Okay, we know they are being held as gladiators, and I've learned that a major festival with all the attendant folderol is planned to begin a week from now. Iphicles had some interesting ideas about how we might proceed, and has loaned us some assets to flesh out our little invasion of Rome. Here's how we might get this done…."

* * *

They'd been transported into the city the night before, along with twenty other slaves who'd been trained as gladiators for the Circus Maximus. During the journey, they'd watched for opportunities to revolt, but the guard had been heavy, the wagons surrounded by soldiers, both foot and cavalry, and there'd been no moment of inattention, no option but to continue biding their time.

They'd come into Rome from the north, following the ancient route of the traditional 'Triumphs' from the field of Mars down past the Equiline Hill, into the centre of Rome. The wagons lumbered past the Forum and up the Capitoline Hill, then trundled down and around the crowded and narrow winding streets to the end of the stadium's grounds, on the edge of the Aventine, overlooking the Forum below.

The killing field was massive, circled with a wide track for chariot racing, surrounded by raised tiers of stone-sculpted stands behind ten foot high walls of glistening white marble. Thousands could be accommodated at the games, thousands of the wealthy and the poor alike. A party atmosphere had been created, with streamers blowing from tall masts that circled the field, the flags of the Empire and the crest of the Caesar snapping in the wind while musicians played lively tunes throughout the day and night. Hawkers of food and drink were set up all around the perimeter, smoke rising from their braziers carrying the scent of roasted meats into the streets and along the narrow alleys. Brazen women smiled at likely customers, while men in togas and plain tunics roamed the streets, looking for excitement and pleasant diversions.

The wagons rolled on, turning finally onto a ramp that led down and under the stands to the corridors and stalls below. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the heavy rich odour of the animals in stalls and cages…dozens and dozens of horses for the chariot races, a black panther, a tawny lion and a striped tiger paced in their respective cages, a chained bear growled with fury and fear. The gladiator slaves were hauled from their transport and shoved along the stone flagged corridor, dark but for the torches that flickered in wall brackets along its length. Finally, they came to the cells, barren but for pallets of straw and a pail for waste, three stone walls fronted by a fourth wall of iron bars. Bleak, and for those seeking some weakness, some means of escape, disheartening in the extreme.

They were pushed into cells, three or four per enclosure, so that Iolaus, Meleager and Theseus found themselves housed together. They'd been given the drill. Over the next few days, they would hold some 'public practices' out on the sand between chariot races, to raise interest and excitement for the blood sports later in the week. The animals would be included in the first acts of that final sordid entertainment, then they'd be expected to face so-called 'champions' from other parts of the world…other slaves, none so well trained as they were, as they were the elite who were expected to survive for the final contests. Those who survived would then face one another, and the last gladiator left standing would be named 'Champion of the Games' and given his freedom.

'An expensive past-time, this slaughter of slaves,' Iolaus thought, but supposed that since there were thousands to be taken from their subjugated lands, the Romans could hardly be expected to count the costs. He snorted to himself in disgust as he stood a moment to examine their lovely new surroundings.

They each chose a wall and leaned their backs against it, easing themselves to the floor. Looking at one another silently, and then away, they stared at the floor or ceiling. Time was running out. They only had a few days left to find their own way to freedom, a way that hopefully did not include murdering other hapless victims of the Empire…or one another.

The odds weren't looking good.

* * *

The Argo slipped into its temporary berth on the Tiber downstream from Ostia, a few miles from the centre of Rome. They might have gotten closer to the city, but that would have heightened the risks of their activities being noted by officials. As the afternoon waned and night fell, 'sailors' left the ship, singly or in small groups, hauling sacks of 'goods for trade' over their shoulders…linen bundles that concealed Roman armour, weapons and the various tools they might need to affect a rescue of comrades held in stout cells.

At dawn, a small contingent of the elite Praetorian Guard was observed by the curious dockworkers and traders to march up to the Greek vessel, and shortly to return again down along the dock, escorting a richly clothed merchant and a giant of a man in chains. Nodding wisely to one another, the onlookers decided that this was a slave bound for the Games…and from the look of him, he'd give a good afternoon's entertainment.

* * *

As they approached the administrative offices below the large field of the Circus, Jason straightened his rich robes and mentally rehearsed his lines. Their 'official escorts' had learned the night before that the theme of one segment of the Games to be held the next day was 'Heroic Legends of Our Conquered Peoples'. These would be little vignettes showcasing the myths and legends of the far-flung lands that had been subjugated over the past few years, one of which was Judea. One of the vignettes was to re-enact 'David in the Lion's Den'. Jason was going to propose that this vignette be followed up with another… 'David and Goliath'. And, he just happened to own a slave who could credibly play the role of the villainous giant.

If their strategy worked, it would enable Hercules to get inside the prison complex where the slaves were housed. Though they couldn't know for sure which gladiator had been slated for the role of 'David', the men impersonating the Roman soldiers had heard a small, blond Greek slave had been chosen. Hercules had gone very still at that news as he imagined Iolaus facing a lion in that circus of death. The fear-spawned rage he'd felt surge over him would serve him well in convincing the Master of the Games that his very presence could invoke a delicious simulated sense of terror in the hearts of the audience.

They strode out of the blindingly bright sun down into the warren of offices, animal stalls, cages and pens, and cells below. Once they reached the busy precinct of the Master of the Games, one of the annually elected Roman Consuls drawn from their ruling families, the 'Captain of the Guard' stood forward to introduce Jason as 'Anacrites, a merchant from Attica', while the rest of the military contingent kept a tight hold on the very imposing 'slave'.

With an urbane manner, Jason then stepped forward and bowed to the official. "My lord," he began, "I've heard of the brilliant concept of this year's games, to re-enact various little stories of myth and legend…and I understand you have chosen the story of the Judean King David as one of the day's entertainments."

Nodding, busy and not very interested in this insignificant foreign merchant, the official studied his visitors. Maybe not so insignificant if he was accompanied by the elite guards, the official considered, then responded briefly, if not quite rudely, "Yes, that is so."

Waving in Hercules' general direction, Jason smiled as he continued, "It occurred to me that your Roman citizens might also enjoy the tale of how David defeated the giant Goliath… and I thought to offer you one of my slaves for the part of the giant, as a gesture of friendship and goodwill between my country and yours."

His eyes narrowing with suspicion, the official looked from Jason to the large, hostile half-clothed man bound in chains. Merchants gave nothing away for free. "It's a kind thought and generous offer, one that might occasion a gift in return…" the Consul observed, waiting to learn what this merchant was really after.

Rubbing his hands together, as if absentmindedly and unknowingly revealing his hope for reward, Jason's smile broadened as he returned in a tone just short of being oily, "Well, now, that's an unexpected offer…but perhaps, yes…a gift of admission to the games for myself and my crew, and, if it wouldn't be too much to hope for, a letter of official commendation that I might use as a reference to further my business in this city…"

His suspicions confirmed, the official nodded, thinking the Greek's hopes were reasonable and could be easily accommodated. He looked again at the towering barbarian as he asked, "Will he fight?"

"Oh yes," Jason chuckled. "To be candid, this one is worse than useless to me. I'd hoped his strong back could be put to good purpose, but he is completely untamed, little more than an animal really. As you can see, I keep him well chained…otherwise, he'd be lashing out at the nearest handy target. He'll give good entertainment, I can assure you."

"Good…providing 'David' survives the lion, then this titan will be his next contest," the official returned, signaling his minions to prepare the requested documents for the merchant. He was not unhappy with this unlooked for 'event'…given the costs of putting on these games, this extra little entertainment would be practically free, and held the potential for good drama, whether or not the lion won. "If not, well, we could always see how this slave would fare against the beast. It's not like anyone will really care about the accuracy of the re-enactments of the legends of the barbarians."

Hercules growled and lunged, having to be restrained by the 'guards', while Jason smiled amiably and took the admission documents and the letter of reference from the Master of the Games' secretary. "It's a pleasure doing business with you," the merchant opined silkily.

"Any you, sir…I hope your business thrives here in Rome," the official replied, already turning away to direct the 'guards' on where to take his latest acquisition.

* * *

The 'Praetorian Guard' escorted their new slave down into the area housing the cells. Unfortunately, one was available at the end nearest the entrance, far from where the elite gladiatorial slaves were housed, so their comrades could not know Hercules had arrived with help. As they shoved him into the cell, and took their time chaining him to the wall, they whispered to finalize the next stage of their improvised plans.

"You'll need to be down here tomorrow," Hercules murmured through narrowed lips as he lightly pulled on the chains, knowing he could snap them with no difficulty. "We'll take out the regular guards once Iolaus is sent up to face the lion. Together, we'll free the all the slaves and a few of you can leave with our friends to 'escort' them to the ship. The rest need to stay, to act as back-up for me and Iolaus, to carry his 'body' from the sand and escort me back into the tunnels. The crowd will be expecting more action immediately, so you'll have to set some of the animals free to rush into the arena as we're leaving, to create a diversion." Hercules didn't much care for the idea of Iolaus having to face the lion, but as the first act, it had to go forward, to create the diversionary time they needed to get the rest out.

"What if Iolaus has trouble with the lion?" one ventured to ask, sick at the idea of any man having to face such a threat alone on the sun-bleached sand.

"Iolaus will be fine," Hercules growled, unwilling to consider any other outcome. "But, I'll be ready to lend a hand if he runs into any trouble he can't handle…if it all falls apart, our friends in the audience will help with their own diversion. "

"Won't the Romans come after the Argo as soon as they know the slaves have all been set free?" another hissed, not liking the ephemeral lines of their strategy and the many things that could go wrong.

"If need be, the Argo can depart and those of us who haven't made it back will slip out of Rome and rejoin the ship at Ostia. But, with so many slaves set free, the confusion will likely keep anyone from connecting 'Anacrites' with what has transpired, and there is no way to link our mythical merchant with the Argo," Hercules sighed. There were no guarantees and a great deal could go wrong, he knew that as well as they did. But dwelling on dark possibilities wasn't of any use. Their greatest advantage was the arrogance of the Romans themselves. It would never occur to them that a small contingent of Greeks had infiltrated the centre of the Empire to free a few inconsequential slaves. Hopefully, before they figured it out, the Argo and its full complement would be safely away.

It wasn't much of a plan…but, in the circumstances, it was the best they could do.

* * *

That night, the gladiators were given the final roster of events for the coming day's events, so that they would be clear on their roles in the various vignettes and could prepare themselves accordingly.

"There've been a few last minute additions and changes," their overlord informed them as he moved from cell to cell, giving out information with the evening's bowls of gruel. "Iolaus…you are playing 'David' and you'll be facing the lion as the first of the afternoon's events with the animals."

"Yeah, I know," the warrior replied. This wasn't 'news'…he'd been told of his role the day before.

"Well…we've added an extra event. After the lion, you'll be facing 'Goliath'…David killed the giant 'Goliath' with a slingshot," the overseer replied, referring to his notes. "But, I've seen the 'giant' and I doubt he'll give you time to get off a shot. You'll have to be quick on your feet to take him…but, you'll have the weapons from the battle with the lion, so you'll have a fighting chance."

"Wonderful," sighed Iolaus sarcastically, turning away. Theseus and Meleager had their own roles…and they'd been amused to learn the day before that they'd be re-enacting the Caledonian Boar Hunt.

As the overseer moved on, the three comrades settled against the back wall to eat their meagre meal.

"You get all the really good roles," Meleager teased his smaller companion, though both he and Theseus were unhappy to know Iolaus would be facing two deadly opponents back to back.

"The Fates have always loved me," Iolaus replied with a grin, "and they like to keep me well entertained."

Theseus chuckled in return, going along with the bravado. But, both he and Meleager needed to know how Iolaus planned to handle the 'giant'. They knew only too well that only one combatant was expected to survive the contest. "Will you kill him?" the big man asked quietly.

Iolaus swallowed as he dropped his spoon into the bowl and set his untasted meal aside. He'd rather hoped they wouldn't ask. "No," he sighed. "I won't."

"Then he'll kill you," Meleager replied softly, his voice strained.

Iolaus looked away and closed his eyes. Biting his lip, he shook his head and then looked back at his comrades. "I'm sorry…I can't kill some innocent just to entertain Caesar."

"Innocent?" Theseus argued. "He's probably a murdering behemoth that the world would be better off without!"

"Maybe," Iolaus allowed, "or maybe he's just a man like we are, forced to play these deadly games…a man with friends and family, a country he's been torn from, a man who fought for that country and lost. I can't…I won't let them make me a murderer."

Meleager blew out a long breath, then said quietly, "When you get to the Other Side, you might as well tell Hades to get ready for us…we won't be long behind you." Neither he nor Theseus were any more ready to sacrifice their principles than was Iolaus, even at the cost of their lives.

A sad, knowing smile played about Iolaus' lips as he gazed at his two friends. "Heroes to the end, eh? Drawing a line in the sand, fighting and dying to protect the innocent? We're all hopeless, completely hopeless, you know that don't you?"

Laughing, Theseus agreed, "Absolutely…we've always been a little crazy. Why should any of us change now?"

Chuckling, Iolaus reached for his untouched meal, suddenly feeling hungry again. They might die on the morrow, but they'd die on their own terms, for what they believed in.

No man could ask more than that.

* * *

As Jason and the rest of his crew made their way into the stands they chose places widely spaced apart in case they needed to create a riot in the audience as a distraction for their friends in the arena. Gazing around, assessing the crowd, they noted it was definitely going to be a full house. Romans of every walk of life thronged into the stands, a surprisingly well ordered mass of people who moved quickly to their places, anxious for the excitement of the day's entertainments. There was much laughter and high spirits that disgusted the Greeks, but they kept their true feelings well hidden behind their own broad smiles of anticipation. Nor were their smiles entirely false…they just expected a different kind of entertainment.

The sun beat down on the open arena, the white sand already hot and reflecting back the heat in visible waves. There was a blare of trumpets to announce Caesar's arrival with his party of family, friends and official guests. As he made his way to their box of seats in the centre of the stadium's stands, the crowd quietened in respect.

There was another blare of trumpets and the crowd surged to its feet, crying, "Hail, Caesar!" The sound rose in a thunderous cacophony, accompanied by the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. Smiling benignly, Caesar raised his arms in a kind of salute and benediction, and the thunder of sound rolled away, leaving silence.

"Welcome, fellow Romans and countrymen!" Caesar cried. "We are well met here in celebration of the Empire and our mastery of the world. Today, our Games will amuse and entertain us with stories of the peoples we have brought into our family, peoples who now benefit from our gentle rule. Let the Games begin!"

There was a flurry of trumpet and a roll of drum as all eyes turned to the glistening sands.

A single small figure walked out from the darkened tunnel in the centre of the far side of the arena, blond hair catching the glint of the hot sun, bronze armour reflecting its hot glare. He carried a long spear in one hand and a net was looped over his other arm and shoulder. A voice cried out, "We give you David…in the Lion's Den."

As the voice died away, a mighty golden lion burst out of another tunnel as the barred gate was raised, growling and furious, frightened and disoriented by the noisy chaos of the crowd who erupted into cheers. Roaring out its challenge, its great maned head swung from side to side as it prowled along the perimeter of the arena, eying the man who stood alone in the centre of the oval space. The poor beast had been starved for days, and to its eyes, the two-legged creature looked like its best hope for a meal.

Iolaus watched the lion with eyes narrowed against the glare from the sand, and swallowed in awe at its size and evident strength. Blowing out a breath, he recalled the original legend, of how the young David had been cast weaponless into the den of lions to be killed. But, whether he'd charmed the lions, or whether his God had rendered him safely invisible, no one knew. It was only known that David had emerged unscathed. David had not killed the lions, but the Romans were more sporting and had provided their 'David' with weapons…besides, they were here to see blood, not a miracle.

As he watched the beast circle nearer, Iolaus recalled one of the lessons he'd learned in the east. He'd only had one other occasion to use it, that time when he'd been cast into a pit with a massive and very angry boar. Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing, centering himself, wrapping himself in calm.

Maybe he could give them the miracle instead of the blood they'd hoped to see. 'Wouldn't that be a surprise?' he thought sardonically.

Jason gasped when he saw his friend calmly and slowly set his weapons onto the sand at his feet. 'By the gods,' he cursed to himself, 'surely he's not going to just stand there and let that beast kill him!"

Jason was not alone in his reaction. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of air that whistled in the silence…and then they all held that breath, leaning forward as they waited to see what would happen next.

Iolaus stepped away from the weapons, his hands out away from his hips, his eyes seeking those of the lion. The first time he caught the lion's gaze, the beast looked away, shaking its head, the mane rippling in the light breeze, and it growled threateningly as it stalked forward.

Iolaus paused, and in the silence some could hear him begin to hum, almost a low rumble in his throat, steady and somehow calming. He lifted one hand slowly, attracting the lion's attention and the beast paused, uncertain, as it listening to the sound, its gaze once again finding that of the lone man.

Holding the lion's eyes with his own, continuing his low, reassuring rumble of sound, Iolaus took a step forward, slowly, calmly, but inexorably, his raised hand held a little in front of his body, palm to the ground and fingers pointed at the spot between the beast's eyes. The lion growled again, then whined, almost a whimpering sound, its gaze now a prisoner of the man's intent regard.

In the hush of the stadium, Iolaus walked forward until he stood directly in front of the massive lion whose bulk could now be clearly seen to be ten times his own, and the crowd gaped at the unprecedented sight of the diminutive man taming the wild beast.

Iolaus laid his hand upon the lion's head, resting it there with just enough weight to be felt. The low rumble in his throat turned to a low crooning sound, and he smiled as he rubbed the mane, scratching between the great beast's ears. Then, he knelt, and rubbed the lion's jaw, and then its chest and legs, leaning forward that it might sniff at his hair.

Enamored, the mighty beast pushed forward, lifting a huge paw playfully, nudging Iolaus off balance, so that he sprawled onto the sand and the lion loomed over him, jaws gaping.

Jason's eyes closed and he looked away, certain his friend was about to be killed, mauled to death by those claws and fearsome fangs. But, he jerked back to attention, along with the rest of the crowd, when Iolaus' delighted laughter filled the stadium…he and the lion were actually wrestling playfully in the sand.

After a few minutes of breathtaking activity, to the awe of the citizens of Rome and the Empire's Caesar, the gladiator rolled back to his knees and then to his feet. With one hand resting securely on the head of his lion, Iolaus loped alongside the beast back to the tunnel's entrance, patting it reassuringly as he gently ushered it back into the darkness. Once the gate had lowered behind the beast, Iolaus turned and walked calmly back to the centre of the stadium and bowed to Caesar, unable to resist an impish grin at the startled look on the emperor's face.

There was a roar of approval from the crowd. They loved courage and audacity…and they loved showmanship even more. They'd never heard of such a thing, a man taming a wild beast and they would tell this tale for a long time. As Iolaus grinned and waved to the crowd, his eyes scanning the multitude, he thought he'd glimpsed faces that he knew. Denying his urge to look back and search the crowd, he sighed, knowing that could not be possible.

Behind him, he heard the gate to the tunnels groan as it was again lifted, and he knew 'Goliath' must be making an entrance, even as trumpets flared and a voice cried, "The Battle of David and Goliath".

Swallowing, he turned to meet his Fate, the anonymous slave he knew he could not kill, even to save his own life. The crowd quietened again in anticipation, wondering what miraculous events might next be in store for their entertainment. Jason and his men tensed. Depending on how this next vignette played out, they might yet have to create a diversion…the rocks they'd carried in to lob at the lion to distract it if necessary could as well be used to lob into the crowd, and they had knives and swords secreted away about their persons should they need to begin a full scale riot.

Iolaus braced himself as he saw the shape of a large man move out from the shadows, his heart racing as he watched in stunned disbelief at the familiar shape and grace of movement…and then he thought he might well collapse, actually staggering a little, his knees weak with relief and joy as Hercules strode out into full view.

The demigod took their breath away. The sun played on long honey-brown hair blowing lightly in the wind, and his muscles rippled in the glaring light, massive, every movement conveying rage and a deadly power. He lifted his chiselled face, eyes flashing as he scanned the massive crowd, contempt clear in every line of his body. In the hush of anticipation, they could clearly hear his growl of fury as he turned to face the man he clearly meant to batter to death with the fists clenched at his side.

Nor was the rage 'Goliath' projected entirely feigned. Hercules had just learned from Meleager and Theseus how Zetes had died in that wretched mine and the waste of his old friend's life had angered him. Then, just as Hercules had reached the end of the darkened tunnel, he heard the collective gasp of the crowd clear in the unnatural silence…and he looked out through the darkness of the tunnel's entrance into the blazing light of the arena to see Iolaus wrestling with the lion. Horrified, he had been about to launch himself onto the burning sands to rescue his best friend when he heard Iolaus' laughter…and he couldn't believe it.

Iolaus was playing with the huge, deadly creature?

The demigod had watched in stunned disbelief as Iolaus rose and loped with the lion to the tunnel at the far end of the arena, finally realizing that his friend had deliberately risked death, deliberately taunted the Fates, by casting away his weapons and facing the beast that could so easily have killed him with nothing but his will. When Iolaus had bowed to Caesar, Hercules had felt a wave of such fury wash over him at his friend's reckless disregard for his own life that he'd been staggered. Striding out into the sunlight, all he wanted to do was grab Iolaus and smack him hard for taking such a stupid, terrible risk.

Iolaus stood his ground, not knowing what to expect, deeply shocked and as the first sense of joyous surprise wore off, dismayed to see his best friend here in the centre of Rome, hostage as he was to her power and wrath. Taking a deep breath, all he could think was that Hercules shouldn't be doing this, risking this…it was too dangerous. He tried to read his friend's eyes, seeing only rage, knowing it was feigned. Clearly, whatever was going down here, Herc didn't want the Romans to know they were best friends. How in Tartarus was Hercules planning to get them both out of this in one piece? Because, Iolaus knew he couldn't get away with the same trick he'd used on the lion…there would be no 'taming' of this foe and the crowd expected only one combatant to walk away from their battle.

In the myth, it was David who survived.

But, he wasn't David. And this time, 'Goliath' was the Son of Zeus.

With a low cry, Hercules launched himself at Iolaus, racing across the hot sands, hoping against hope that Iolaus had figured out how this was supposed to go down. They had to make a show of this if they had any hope of having the outcome believed by the crowd.

While he'd waited and watched to figure out what Herc was up to, Iolaus had been playing with the bindings of his armour, loosening it. As the massive warrior lunged toward him, he shrugged off the armour…it was too heavy and would just get in his way. The crowd gasped at his audacity, daring to face the unarmoured and unarmed behemoth in open, hand to hand combat.

Just as Hercules reached out to grab him, Iolaus dropped and rolled, swinging out a stiff leg to trip the larger man, bringing him down into the dust. Iolaus scrambled away, making a show of trying to escape, but allowed himself to be caught, one leg grabbed by a massive, powerful grip that dragged him back.

Reining in the fury he couldn't afford to indulge, Hercules loomed over him, countering the punches Iolaus threw at him and lifting an arm to mimic a vicious backhanded blow. Iolaus moved just in time, the blow glancing off his head, though he grunted and rolled with it, as if dazed.

"We've got to make this look good," Hercules hissed between clenched teeth. "I'm going to pick you up a few times and throw you," he continued as he grabbed Iolaus and lifted the smaller man over his head, "and then I'm going to strangle you to death."

"Sounds like fun," Iolaus whispered back as he was lifted past Herc's head, struggling desperately, yelling then for effect as Hercules threw him away. The smaller man twisted in the air and hit the ground with a roll that brought him back to his feet. He dashed for his spear and held it out threateningly, only to have the 'giant' tear it from his hands and snap it in two, to the delight of the crowd.

Iolaus then lunged for the net that lay tangled on the ground, tossing it awkwardly, as if made clumsy by fear, so that it failed to entangle the giant. Hercules caught it and whipped it around in the air, then tore it apart with his hands, dropping its tattered remains disdainfully onto the pieces of the broken spear.

Stumbling back in apparent terror, Iolaus managed to trip over his own feet, crashing to the ground and trying to crawl desperately away, only to have one of Herc's boots connect with his side, and he flung himself with the momentum of the kick, crying out as if in great pain as he writhed in the sand.

With a roar, Hercules again picked up his apparently hapless victim, holding Iolaus high above his head as he turned in a rapid, tight circle and again flung his victim away with ruthless force. Though Iolaus landed in such a way as to cushion himself and absorb the shock, the crowd could only see a man being broken by the abusive power of a giant.

Staggering to his feet, Iolaus backed away, one hand out as if in supplication while his other arm hugged his body, as if something inside had been shattered, but Hercules strode remorselessly forward, letting go a punch that seemed to drive his victim back hard into the sand. Deciding to give back a little, Iolaus rallied, again tripping up the 'giant', kicking out at his assailant's head, then backing away, breathing hard as if trying to regain his strength, but bent and staggering as if in terrible pain.

Hercules rolled away from the kick, shrugging it off as he roared to his feet and raced toward Iolaus, who turned to run away, leading the 'giant' a merry chase for a space of time, drawing laughter from the crowd.

But…the 'giant' caught the diminutive hero, and back-handed him viciously, sending him to the sand where he lay stunned. Dropping down, the smaller man's body pinned between his knees, the 'giant' reached forward and got a strangle hold on the smaller man, his hands above the ugly slave collar at the base of Iolaus' neck. 'David' fought back, bucking his body to try to dislodge the bigger man, tearing at the hands around his throat…fighting hard for his life.

"Choke me out, Herc," Iolaus grated as he fumbled at the large hands around his throat.

"Are you crazy?" the demigod growled back, sickened by the very idea. "Forget it."

"No…I have to turn blue…they're watching…we have to make this look real," Iolaus urged, pounding his fists against his friend's forearms, swinging wildly and catching the demigod with a glancing blow on the chin. This had to be convincing. Caesar and the rest had to believe he'd been killed or Herc would be at risk. "DO IT!" he rasped, eyes flashing, demanding that Hercules see this through to the bitter end.

"Dammit," the demigod growled, but he knew Iolaus was right. But, gods, what if he squeezed too hard? What if…

"Do it," Iolaus appealed again desperately, his eyes imploring, terrified for his friend. They were in the stadium in the centre of Rome, surrounded by the enemy…there would be no escape for either of them if there was any doubt that 'Goliath' hadn't really killed 'David'. The crowd was roaring with frenzied madness, some cursing the giant, others egging him on to the kill.

With a low moan of anguish, Hercules tightened his grip, watching Iolaus' face redden then darken to a sickly bluish tinge as his best friend gasped for breath, his lungs automatically fighting for air. Hating every moment of this torture, Hercules could feel Iolaus' grip on his arms weaken as his buddy's eyes lost focus and the light in them died.

Iolaus' hands fell away, and his arms dropped lifelessly to the sand as 'David' stilled beneath the grip of 'Goliath', killed by the giant's hands.

The crowd roared…their favourite had been murdered before their very eyes, and some were furious on his behalf. But, on balance, it had been a good show and they were excited by the violence and the spectacle of death. 'Goliath' eased his grip and touched the face of his victim with a surprising gentleness before lurching backward with a broken cry that was lost in the thunderous shouting of the masses.

Suddenly, a small contingent of Praetorian Guards burst out of the tunnel, swords drawn as they circled around the giant and drove him from the body of his victim. While the main body of the Guard drove 'Goliath' from the stadium at swordpoint, one swiftly hauled the lifeless 'David' from the sands.

Just as they reached the tunnels, there was a roar from the far end of the stadium as the lion, a panther and a tiger burst onto the sands, closely followed by a boar chased by an irate bear.

It was chaos.

The audience didn't know what was going on, and the animals not having ready meat in the ring with them were charging the stands hungrily, leaping to try to clear the high walls to get at the people in the lowest stands…who, in turn, screamed in terror and wild excitement.

As people surged back from the front ranks, more confusion broke out as stones that were assumed to have been thrown at the beasts to drive them back, landed on Roman citizens, enraging them. There was much shouting, pushing and shoving, panic building as fights broke out in the stands.

In the confusion, nobody noticed as a score of men amidst the thousands faded back and away, as they made their own escape from Caesar's Circus.

* * *

As soon as they were sheltered in the shadows of the tunnel, Hercules pushed back through the 'Guard' to the side of the one dragging Iolaus from the stadium. The demigod was panting with barely suppressed anxiety. Iolaus couldn't still be unconscious…he'd hadn't been without air that long. He had to be faking it, but his best friend was still so limp, so lifeless…Hercules had to make sure Iolaus really was alright. He'd taken a few hits and several throws, and though the demigod was certain he'd not actually done any real damage, there was no way he'd really believe that until he saw Iolaus conscious and in one piece.

Kneeling swiftly, he reached out to the limp, lifeless man, gasping, "Iolaus…are you alright?"

For a moment, Iolaus remained lifeless, then one eye opened as he croaked passed his bruised throat, "Shhh, I'm dead, remember?"

"Idiot," Hercules growled as he pulled his giggling best friend to his feet. "Let's get out of here."

But Iolaus stayed him a moment longer, one hand gripping the demigod's arm as all trace of the laughter left his eyes, and then he hugged Hercules fiercely as he murmured, "Gods, I'm glad to see you."

Hugging him back for the space of a heartbeat, Hercules whispered, "I'm sorry it took so long."

And then they were racing down the long dark corridor, hastily pulling on the tunics members of the 'Guard' tossed to them to cover their half-naked bodies. Iolaus noted the empty cells as they flew past, and the unconscious or dead bodies of the real guards along the hall, only now realizing what had been going on while he'd tamed the lion.

Slowing as they reached the exit, the 'Guard' formed up around them, as if escorting them away from the stadium, lest anyone be watching and taking note. But, the distraction of the unleashed animals, together with the riot that had been engineered, left them entering a thronging mass of humanity, all intent only on making their way from the circus grounds.

Moving steadily, quickly but not with such haste as to attract attention, they headed away from the centre of the city, up and over the Aventine Hill and through the Capuna Gate, then down to the river. Pausing briefly in an old abandoned shrine to a nameless god, the 'Praetorian Guard' made their own quick change back into the guise of sailors, pulling on the tunics they'd secreted in this handy hiding place not far from the gate out of the city.

In less than an hour, they were striding along the dock.

Having been watching for them, and having counted heads to know that everyone was accounted for, Jason had the ship ready to cast off. In minutes, the Argo was easing into the river's current, men at the oars hastening her departure from Rome.

* * *

Iolaus spotted Calais along the port rail near the bow, Meleager and Theseus standing with him. The younger man had turned away, and was bent over the rail, his shoulders shaking. Following Iolaus' glance, Hercules understood that Calais had just learned his brother's fate back in the tin mines of Britannia. Wordlessly, Iolaus moved forward to join them, and standing beside Calais, he looped an empathetic arm around his friend's shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Iolaus murmured. "I wish…"

"NO!" Calais rasped through his tears. "Don't…it's not your fault. I shouldn't have left him…shouldn't have run away…"

"You didn't run away…you ran for help!" Iolaus cut in sternly, tightening his grip. "You had no choice. Zetes' death isn't your fault, Calais…you couldn't have saved him."

"If we'd gone after you…" the distraught man protested. "If we hadn't abandoned you, gone after those damned cattle…we could have saved him."

Iolaus looked to Theseus and Meleager, the latter responding to his questioning glance, "Mopsis explained when we got here…the Mabon told Hercules they'd fail if they tried to rescue us from the mines…that we'd all be killed. Demeter required them to bring cattle to Greece…the people there were starving after the plagues and months of famine…they had no choice."

Calais had twisted away, not wanting to hear it, consumed with grief and guilt. His brother had died in that hellish faraway land, and he'd done nothing to save him.

His brother was dead.

And there was nothing anyone could do change that terrible reality.

"Calais," Iolaus said then, his voice quiet, "there's nothing you or any of us could have done. It happened too quickly. One of the guards was whipping a child, and Zetes couldn't stand it, didn't care that it would mean his life…he had to fight back. And, he did…he protected that child and killed the guard before they killed him. I'm sorry he died. I wish we could have all survived…but he died a hero, Calais. He died doing what he knew was right. Don't take that from him. Don't regret the man he was, the hero he was."

Calais breathed out a shuddering sob, and wiped the tears from his cheeks as he bent his head. "I loved him…" he choked.

"I know," Iolaus replied, tears in his own eyes. "We all did, and we'll all miss him for the rest of our lives. He loved you, too…that's why he ordered you away. He was glad, Calais, always glad to know that you hadn't been taken. Knowing you were safe was the only thing that gave him any peace in those last weeks."

The younger man turned then and allowed Iolaus to embrace him, to hold him while he cried out his sorrow. "I loved him…" he murmured again through his tears.

Holding the younger man in a firm but gentle grip, Iolaus nodded and swallowed past the lump in his own throat, as he whispered, "You always will…and you will see him again in Elysium. Love is eternal, Calais…and our spirits never die."

* * *

As soon as Jason had the Argo safely on its way, one more anonymous ship in the channel of the Tiber pulling for the sea, he went in search of Iolaus. He'd had the chance to enthusiastically greet the other two lost sheep, and to learn of Zetes' death, before they'd untied the ship from the dock, but had been busy since.

He found the blond warrior in the midst of a number of other old friends who were anxious to welcome him back into the fold, Hercules standing nearby grinning like a fool. Jason knew he was probably being unfair and ill-tempered, but he couldn't help it. He was furious with Iolaus. Unceremoniously hauling the younger man away from his comrades, the Captain of the Argo held his temper in check until they were some distance away at the bow of the ship.

"What in Tartarus did you think you were doing!" stormed Jason, his eyes flashing as he leaned over the smaller man.

"Hey, it's great to see you, too, Jason," Iolaus replied, with a quizzical look as he tried to figure out what had gotten his old friend so steamed.

"Bah!" growled the ex-King of Corinth. "That lion could have ripped you apart! I damned near had a heart attack watching you wrestle with the beast. What was wrong with you?"

"Hey, Jase, relax all right? It all worked out…" Iolaus replied as he half turned away, only to be grabbed by the arm and pulled back around.

"Don't give me that!" Jason replied, his voice rough. "I was watching you…I saw you drop those weapons and stand there like a lamb to the slaughter while that lion stalked you. You didn't care, did you?" he accused, "You'd given up."

Dropping his gaze, shrugging a little as he blew out a long breath, Iolaus knew he was stalling. "Look…I don't want to talk about it. Let's just drop it," he replied quietly.

"No, I won't 'just drop it', dammit," the older man cursed. "It was bad enough knowing we were so close, knowing you had to face that beast before we could get you out of there. And, look at you…maybe Hercules hasn't noticed with all the dirt and sand, but that lion mauled you, whether it was playing or not." Making his point, Jason grabbed Iolaus' arm, causing the younger man to wince when Jason held the long sand-encrusted gash up to the light. "Why, Iolaus? Why would you risk…?" Jason asked more quietly.

Swallowing, Iolaus pulled his arm away from his friend's hard grip, then sighed as he looked up into Jason's eyes. "The last time I saw you, you'd been shot…I saw Herc go down and couldn't do a damned thing to help either of you. It's been almost a year, Jase, a year without knowing…." Iolaus' voice was oddly empty as he continued, "I was a slave, with no way out, and the next little game of the afternoon was to fight some other poor slob to the death for the amusement of those bloodthirsty Romans. I knew I couldn't do it, couldn't kill someone who didn't deserve to be there any more than I did."

Turning his head away, his voice faltered, but then when Jason held his silence, waiting for more explanation, Iolaus continued very softly, "When that lion stalked out, and I could feel its fear and confusion…I don't know, I guess it just didn't seem worth the effort to kill it. What was the point? All the damned spectators wanted was blood… mine, the lion's, it didn't matter." Iolaus sighed again as he looked up out over the horizon, his eyes haunted. "I was tired, Jase, tired of all of it. How was I supposed to know you were there, that Herc was waiting in the shadows? I gave up hoping to ever see you again a long time ago. So, well, I guess I tossed it to the Fates. I'd learned how to calm animals a long time ago and thought, why not? If it worked, great…if it didn't…well, what did it matter?"

Jason closed his eyes and sighed heavily as he laid a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed gently. Turning his gaze to Iolaus' weary countenance, he replied softly, "It mattered, Iolaus…you matter, your life matters, you are worth fighting for. You never give up, you never did, no matter what the odds, you always kept coming back. I hated seeing you like that today…it scared me. Gods, we could have lost you so easily. Don't you see…you can't ever give up hope. You can't walk away from your life, from the good can you do, from the difference you can make. I'm…I'm sorry it took us so long. But, you had to know we'd be coming for you, that we'd never abandon you."

"I thought you were dead," Iolaus stated, his voice hollow, echoing with the pain that belief had cost, the eyes he turned to Jason shadowed with the memory of it. "Both of you…otherwise you'd have come long ago. I…I just couldn't keep going. It didn't seem to matter anymore, nothing mattered, Jase. Gods, I've never felt so…empty in all my life. It was almost as if I'd died myself, months ago, and just hadn't stopped breathing yet." Shaking his head, he looked out over the water as he concluded softly, "I've never felt so lost…I couldn't get past it…."

Jason's gaze flicked from Iolaus to Hercules, who'd noticed their lengthy conversation and was watching from further along the deck, his eyes clouded with concern. Shaking his head, he murmured, "I've never seen the like of it before, this friendship the two of you share. When you'd…died…Hercules was so lost, I didn't know if he'd ever find himself again. There was an emptiness in his eyes, a grief so profound it hurt to look at him. And now, you…the same damned thing. It reminds me of the time you thought Ares had killed him, back at the Academy, when you taunted the gods, hoping they'd kill you too. It hurt to look at you then, at the pain you felt, as if part of you had died with him. This is no good, Iolaus…it's not right. You both have to find a way past this… you're not kids anymore. People die, that's the way of it. Neither of you can just give up when the other is one day lost. You have to deal with this…"

"I don't think we can," Iolaus cut in, his voice tight. "I don't pretend to understand it, Jase…I know it makes no sense…that it's crazy. But…gods, even when I was in the Light, I couldn't stand it, being torn apart like that, not being whole."

The warrior's voice broke and he had to swallow hard. Softly, Iolaus continued, "I always knew I'd go first, 'cause I'm mortal, right? I thought I could handle that…but I can't. Living, dying, it makes no difference, don't you see? Without him, I'm just not…I don't have any reason…I…it's the separation, not who lives or dies…I'm torn apart either way. Like the best part of me has been ripped out leaving nothing but a huge gaping hole inside. 'Deal with it'? How? Tell me how, Jase. Gods…you think I want this? You think I can bear knowing that Herc feels the same way? That losing me does this to him? I'd give anything to know how to stop that kind of pain, that kind of need. So, you tell me…and tell him. But…I don't think you can…I don't think there's an answer to this."

Jason took a long breath, shaken by the anguish in Iolaus' voice, the desperation and helplessness to deal with something that was beyond understanding. "Alcmene always said the two of you only had one soul…a great one, to be sure, but one you had to share and protect to protect the other," he reflected softly, more to himself than to Iolaus. "I guess maybe she was right."

Really looking at Iolaus, seeing the deep lines of exhaustion on his face, realizing perhaps for the first time how very weary in every respect his friend was given all he'd endured, Jason slapped him lightly on the shoulder as he said compassionately, "Go on…go to my cabin and clean yourself up. Get some rest. You're right…it's all over and done. It's time we all just got on with living again."

A sigh that was dangerously close to a shuddered sob caused Iolaus' body to tremble under Jason's hand. Nodding, wordlessly, the warrior turned to make his way to his friend's cabin. Walking slowly with his head down, he didn't notice Hercules' concerned gaze or the questioning look the demigod threw at Jason.

* * *

It was hours past sunset when Iolaus finally emerged from Jason's cabin to wander along the deck to the stern. The ship was quiet, and he could hear the lap of waves against the bow, the wind pulling at the rigging. It had been a hard couple of days and most had succumbed to the emotional exhaustion of the strain they'd all shared, retiring to their berths below deck. The air was balmy and the sky was bright with stars, their light reflected on the dark water. Iolaus felt more like himself, cleaned up, with his old vest on. He'd smiled with unexpected relief when he'd seen it on Jason's bed and realized someone must have found it where it had been discarded by the Romans before they'd reached the hardpacked road and the wagons that had borne them to the mines. It meant a lot to know Jason had repaired it, and saved it for him…mute evidence of the determination to get him and the others back safely.

He heard a step behind him and turned, smiling when he saw Hercules sauntering forward casually, carrying a bowl of soup, not fooled by the casual expression on his friend's face.

"You slept through dinner," the demigod explained as he offered the bowl. "I thought you might be hungry."

"You thought right, Herc, thanks," Iolaus replied, taking the bowl and tilting it to his lips for a healthy swallow. As he tilted his head back, the ephemeral light of the stars glinted on the polished iron band around his throat…and picked out the darkened bruises above it.

"You alright?" the demigod asked, wincing a little at the evidence of the strangulation grip he'd held around his friend's throat, remembering with a sudden chill the sight of lifeless eyes and the way Iolaus had gone so limp under his hands.

Nodding, Iolaus replied as he lowered the bowl, "I'm fine." But, at the shadowed look on his friend's face, he continued with quiet forcefulness, "When I saw you walk out onto the sand…everything was suddenly fine…better than fine," he chuckled softly, "great."

Looking away, Hercules said hesitantly, "Jason told me…"

"Yeah," Iolaus cut in, then sighed as he set the empty bowl on a nearby barrel. Looking up his friend, he said reflectively, "You know, ever since we were kids, I've felt this need to protect you. I thought it was 'cause I was older…but that wasn't it, was it? And, for almost the whole of our lives, I'd get so mad at you for always wanting to protect me, cause I'm weaker, I thought, mortal, more vulnerable…but, that wasn't it, either, was it? I didn't realize until I was dead…but I still didn't really get it. That it wasn't just something I felt."

Iolaus knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from sharing what he'd finally understood. "At first, when Gilgamesh…well, I thought what I was feeling was guilt and grief…gods, Herc, I was so sick about what Dahok did. I thought when we finally beat him that it would be okay, not great, you know…but okay. Until I really had to go…and it hurt so bad that I wanted to hold onto you and never let go…but I still thought that it was just what I felt. Oh, I know it had been hard for you before you came back to Sumaria, before we finished Dahok, but I really thought…I really thought that once it was settled, you'd be okay. You'd feel bad, sure, for a while, but mortals die and you go on, right?"

Hercules hadn't been able to hold Iolaus' gaze and had looked away into the night, his face drawn with the anguish of the memories his friend's words were evoking. At one point, he crossed his arms and his head dropped, the veil of hair hiding his face. When Iolaus' voice died away, as if he actually expected an answer to his question, the demigod shook his head sharply, his muscles tense as he fought the urge to grab his friend and shake some sense into his warped little mind. How could Iolaus ever think he'd just move on, get over it? After all the years, everything they'd shared, how could Iolaus not have understood? Taking a deep breath, he raised his head, eyes stormy as he asked with a tight voice, "So when did you finally get it?"

Iolaus looked away, sensing the anger, regretting it. Lifting his hands helplessly and letting them fall to his side, he replied, "After I really, finally died and went into the Light. Gods, I was so damned miserable I couldn't even bear to check on how you were doing for the longest time…couldn't stand to see that you'd forgotten me. And, then, when I knew I needed to warn you, and reached out…I knew then. It wasn't just me, after all. You were every bit as miserable as I was. After that, nothing mattered, nothing, not the risk to my soul, nothing…I just had to get back. For a moment, for a day, whatever. I had to get back to you. When Michael told me he was sending me back for good, I thought I would explode for the joy of it."

Hercules nodded, his eyes damp with the memory of what he'd felt in that moment. Huskily, he said, "If he'd made any other decision, I don't know what I would have done…I wasn't going to let you go again."

"I know," Iolaus sighed. "Herc…when I thought you'd been killed in Britannia…I think I finally understood what you went through after Sumeria…after Dahok. I kept myself going because I thought the others needed me…but I couldn't save Zetes…." His voice caught as he turned away, pushing a hand through his hair.

Hercules reached out to grasp Iolaus' shoulder as he murmured, "Meleager told me what happened. You tried…they almost killed you, too. There wasn't anything you could have done," he said in an effort to console.

Looking out at the dark rolling sea, Iolaus murmured, "The only reason I could see for still being alive was to get them out of that damned mine. And we made it…gods, what a bloodbath…but we got away. And, then, they caught us again. So, I held on, figuring there'd be another chance…they were there because of me, Herc, because I couldn't stomach the way it was in Greece anymore. I owed them. But, I was dead inside. In that arena, I just didn't care anymore. It was hopeless and I was tired of killing just to save my own life. It wasn't worth it…I didn't want it anymore."

He paused as Hercules squeezed his shoulder, the wordless gesture conveying all the demigod felt about how close it had been, how easily it might have worked out a different way. "Until you walked out into the light…and I was alive again," Iolaus whispered, his voice hoarse.

Turning, he looked up at his friend. "I couldn't understand it, Herc…after I got back from the Light, thinking about what we'd both gone through…I couldn't understand why it never stopped hurting. People die, you move on. It hurts for a while, but you move on. Until Mabon told us. Anam Cara, he called us. Jason said earlier that your mother always said the same thing, that we shared a soul. Gods, what does that mean? How does something like that happen?"

"I don't know," Hercules replied. "I just know that it's true."

Iolaus looked up at his friend, terrified by what it meant, that Herc could never be whole without him…how in Tartarus could he protect Hercules from what the future had to hold in store? Gods, he was mortal. He couldn't live forever, couldn't always be brought back, given one more last chance. "I'm sorry," Iolaus whispered, his voice catching. "I'm sorry I didn't understand…sorry about what it means…"

For a moment, Hercules didn't know what Iolaus meant, and was hurt, feeling the most profound sense of rejection that Iolaus didn't want this bond between them. But, as he looked into his friend's troubled eyes and saw the fear there, the fear for him, it suddenly made sense. Iolaus was sorry for the pain this would inevitably mean for Hercules, pain that was unavoidable when one half of that shared soul was mortal and destined to die.

Reaching out, Hercules pulled his best friend, his Anam Cara into a tight hug. "I'm not," he answered, his voice low but firm. "For all of my life, you have been there for me. Because of you, I am who and what I am…you taught me to be proud of who I am, to have the confidence to do what I do. I realized a long time ago that I'm not whole without you in my life. Iolaus…" his voice caught and he had to swallow before he could continue, "I wouldn't change that, or you, for anything in this world or for any kind of paradise. You have always been the best part of me…the part I'm proudest of…the part I care most about. I don't know what the future holds, nobody does. I just know that I will never let you go again…ever."

Iolaus rested his forehead against Hercules' shoulder for a long moment, then pulled back and stepped away, struggling to contain his emotions. Nodding, he replied, "I know that. You said that back in Greece, before we decided to leave. That's why, when you never came, I really thought you'd been killed."

Hercules shook his head a little helplessly as he blew out a long breath. "When I finally woke up after they carried me back to the village, more than a week had passed. All I wanted to do was go after you, but the trail had been lost. It didn't matter, we all knew the Romans had to have taken all of you to the mines. I would have gone, though they said there were scores of mines and thousands of slaves…I would have gone. But Mabon told me if I did, I'd fail…that you'd be gone before I could find you. I thought he meant that you'd be killed. He told me there was only one chance and even it wasn't guaranteed, but that I had to perform a labour for Demeter and then I'd be told where to find you. He said it was the only chance we had, that we'd only been granted that single chance to make it right by love."

Iolaus turned his head sharply, as he asked, "What? 'Love' granted us a chance to make it right?"

Nodding, Hercules continued, "I didn't want to go. I was furious…but I had no choice. I thought that damned trip across the whole of Europa would never end. All I could think of was you in that mine…or wonder if you were still there, and if you weren't, where you were…what was happening to you. That you must have thought I abandoned you."

"No…I never thought that," Iolaus assured him, frowning thoughtfully. Looking up at Hercules he wondered aloud, "How did Mabon and Demeter make contact? Why would Demeter care what happened to us? All she wanted was the cattle because of the plagues and the famine…"

The demigod shook his head. "I don't know," he replied. "I never thought about it. I guess I just figured it was a straight deal…she wanted the cattle, I wanted you, so it was a trade of favours."

But, that didn't feel right to Iolaus. It seemed too convoluted. Too complicated. Demeter was a goddess. If she wanted to do something to restore Greece to a land of abundance, she only had to wave her hand, or blink or whatever. She wouldn't track them all the way to Britannia and make some deal with a foreign holy man. Shaking his head, he murmured, "Love…a chance granted by love."

Hercules cocked his head and raised a brow, wondering what Iolaus was getting at. Looking out over the sea, Iolaus found himself gazing at the Evening Star that hung low just over the far horizon. The star the Romans called Venus.

And then he smiled. If there was anyone on Olympus who would go to the bother of complicated arrangements to help them out, it was Hercules' sister, Aphrodite. Love was her domain, all forms of love, not just the erotic version for which she was most celebrated. Filial, romantic, family, platonic…and the love between souls that were fused into one.

"Love," he murmured again, then looked up at his best friend. "I think Aphrodite did this for us…made it possible for you to find me again in Rome."

"Aphrodite?" Hercules challenged, smiling at the absurdity of the idea and shaking his head, only to stop as he thought about it, thought about what Mabon had said. As if of its own accord, the demigod's arm lifted and his fingers lightly rested on Iolaus' cheek. Suddenly embarrassed by the intimate gesture, usually reserved for those moments when Iolaus was badly hurt, the demigod recovered himself and shifted his gaze to the bruises on Iolaus' throat. Tilting Iolaus' head to one side, Hercules almost absently snapped apart the hated slave collar and tossed it into the sea. Then, looping an arm over his friend's shoulder, Hercules looked up at the bright, blinking star. "You know, Iolaus…you just might be right."

Two hearts and a single united soul sent a heart felt 'Thank you' toward the symbol of a sister's love.

* * *

"Bingo!" Aphrodite crowed, delighted that they'd finally figured it out. Though she'd never have admitted it to them, or to anyone else for that matter, except Demeter who'd had to be brought into it, it was nice to know they were grateful. She did love them, as family, and she loved them for what they brought to her Greece, for what they did, the difference they made. She loved them for who they were and what they meant to one another.

Though she didn't know it, Aphrodite was the closest of the Olympians to the greater power of the Light, for she held a spark of the unconditional and eternal love of that Light in her own being. Better than the other gods, far better, she understood the concept of Anam Cara and knew each half of a shared soul would be eternally lost without the other. As the embodiment of love, she too felt the pain when the rarity of a single soul was severed, ripped apart into aching, anguished emptiness.

'Love' had done what she could to ensure that soul was safe.

* * *

As the land mass of the Peloponnese hove into view, Hercules looked down as his friend. Iolaus was leaning on the rail at the bow, studying the green line on the horizon. "Now would be a good time to decide if we really want to go back," the demigod observed.

"Huh?" Iolaus muttered, distracted. Then Hercules' words sank in and he turned to face his friend. "Where else would we go?"

Shrugging, Hercules gestured widely as he replied, "There's a whole world out there, Iolaus. If you don't want to return to Greece, we can go anywhere we want."

Chuckling wryly, Iolaus shook his head. "We already tried that, remember? It didn't work out all that well," he returned with a smile.

"You sure?" Hercules pushed, remembering that Iolaus had been bleeding when they'd left.

"Yeah, I'm sure. This is home. Another year has passed…maybe it will be better. If it isn't, well, we'll just have to manage," the blond warrior replied.

Overhearing them, Jason decided to join into the conversation. Moving toward them, he said, "I think you'll find things have changed a bit since you left, Iolaus."

Surprised, the younger man turned, one brow raised. "Really? What makes you say that?" he asked, curious.

"Well," Jason explained as he leaned against the rail, "It seems the King of Corinth has had words with his colleagues and suggested quite strongly that if they ever expected to see the two of you again, they'd better stop the rumours about Dahok and make it abundantly clear that one of Greece's heroes was back from the dead…and that their people ought to thank the gods for the miracle of it."

Hercules grinned as he rested a hand on his buddy's shoulder. "No kidding? Did Iph tell you that when he loaned you the soldiers?"

"No…he told me he was going to do that when he loaned me the money to buy the goods to trade on our original voyage," Jason replied. "The last time I saw him, he told me the word was that people were quite anxious to have the both of you back and wondered how much longer you'd be gone."

Iolaus smiled then, lighting up his face, relief and gratitude in his eyes. He didn't know what to say, and wasn't really sure that he could say anything at all given the lump in his throat.

Michael had given him back his life.

Iph had made it possible for him to live it the way he wanted to…in Greece, at Hercules' side.

Clearing his throat, he finally managed to say, his voice a little rough, "You know, Herc, I could really get to like your family." Winking impishly at Jason, he amended, "Well, some of them anyway."

Snorting, Hercules ruffled his best friend's hair, causing Iolaus to duck away, and bringing a laugh to Jason's lips. "Our family, Iolaus," the demigod replied.

'Sword brothers, brothers by choice, brothers of the soul,' the demigod thought as he gazed fondly down at his friend, but all he added was, "Anyway you look at it, buddy, they've always been your family, too."

Finis

Note: Following on the fine tradition of the writers of the three series that recounted the legends of Hercules and Iolaus, not to mention the tv movies, I have distorted myth at will for the purposes of this story. First, there is a mythological account of the Argonauts returning from their adventure in acquiring the Golden Fleece by way of the rivers of Europe, up to the North Sea, along the coast of Britain and then back through the Pillars of Hercules. I've moved the journey to another place in time and reversed the direction of the voyage.

Secondly, Hercules was assigned the labour of bringing Geryon's cattle from deep in Europe to Greece, but the labour was assigned by Eurystheus, as were the other nine labours. During that journey, Hercules encountered Echidna and slayed the giant, Typhon. Well, I couldn't very well have that, so I've substituted two giants and a dragon-like serpent. Hope you don't mind!

Third, Anam Cara is a concept from the ancient Celtic traditions and beliefs about souls that shared a sacred, transcendental relationship, unique and so intimately bound that they might as well have been a single, united soul, destined to be together throughout eternity. The concept seems to fit our heroes…and the need to include haggis in this tale gave me the excuse to take them to the land where they could learn about the depth of the connection between them.

Oh, and as for why the accounts of the myth of the Golden Fleece fail to mention Iolaus at all, and have Hercules leaving the ship to chase after another friend…well, I figure it was just another way Archivus had chosen to tease his two friends, making it seem as if they weren't really a part of the adventure at all. What do you think?