What Friends Are For

by Arianna18

Herc and Iolaus lend their help to Prince Jason who is about to be crowned King of Corinth.

THAT'S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR

by Arianna

Story Concept and Outline by Suzanne

Thank you, my friend.

Note: This tale takes place after Hercules and Iolaus have cemented the foundation of their future relationship in Cave of the Snow Bear but before the first movie, Hercules and the Amazon Women. This is a transitional tale in which they are no longer the youths of the Young Hercules series, but the men we came to know and love in HTLJ. They have finished at the Academy, had their adventure in No Matter What and are taking their time on their way back home as Iolaus was still recovering from his injuries in the stadium. The two young heroes decide to stop off in Corinth to visit their pal, Jason, who has not yet been crowned King. Though he's been ruling his City State as the Crown Prince for the past six months, since the death of his father, Aison, the formal coronation will not to be held until the morning following the winter Solstice – scarcely one month hence – a ceremonial time of new beginnings and traditional time of coronation in Corinth.

This story is a response to the November, 2004 challenge.

Long ago, in times so long past they are lost in the mists of myth and legend, two men, Hipponous and Belleros, staunch friends and stalwart sword brothers, led their people in battle against enemies who had invaded their lands and sought to steal it from them. But a terrible tragedy occurred in the darkness, during the fierce fighting. Hipponous, beset from all sides and lashing out to smite his enemies, failed to recognize Belleros when he rushed in to assist – and Hipponous accidentally killed his dearest friend but did not know what he had done until dawn lit the eastern sky. When he saw who laid dead at his feet, Hipponous fell upon Belleros' body in a paroxysm of grief and was utterly inconsolable. He had won the battle but paid a terrible price for his victory. Haunted by guilt, Hipponous took on a new name

, Bellerophon, so that his best friend's name would forever be associated with the victory, and he vowed to keep his friend's family close to his own, cherished and trusted, through all the generations to come.

But the hero remained bereft and wondered if the battle, the land he'd won and held secure, was worth such a bitter price.

One night, he lay restless on his sleeping mat and dreamed that Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom and War, came to him to give him a trial, a test, to win redemption. In his dream, she commanded him to catch Pegasus, the great winged steed and to bring the immortal horse to her. When he awoke, he shook his head to have such fanciful imaginings – but then, by his side, he found the bit and bridle of woven rawhide and gold that she had given him. Understanding that this was a quest to cleanse his soul, he set out to search for the legendary flying horse to satisfy the Goddess' charge to him. He wandered far and grew weary, but he did not falter in his labour, for he was doing it in Belleros' name. Finally, near Acrocorinth, where the Peirene spring bubbled up from the earth, cool and fresh, he found the mythical beast and captured the magnificent creature using the tools the Goddess had given him. When he brought Pegasus to Athena's Temple on the Acropolis of Corinth, she was well pleased and his reward was the Crown and Scepter she gave to him when she made him King of that place. Bellerophon brought his people to their new land and made Belleros' son his principal advisor, and so it has been throughout the ages between the Kings of Corinth and the line of Belleros.

Bellerophon proved himself to be a strong and able King and, when he died, his people mourned him greatly, and kept his memory alive by telling his tale until it became legend. The Crown and Sceptre were the tangible symbols of Athena's favour, and the people came to believe absolutely that their luck and prosperity were assured so long as her favour remained with Corinth. As the decades and then centuries passed, it seemed their belief had merit, for the city state grew and prospered. The tale of Bellerophon passed into time and might have become as much a child's legend as Pegasus, who had vanished mysteriously when the first King of Corinth died and was thought now, in these modern times, to have never actually existed – but the Crown and Scepter remained as tangible proof of the ancient legend, passed on from generation to generation, the embodiment of Athena's continued blessings on the city and the men who bore them, in their turn, as Corinth's King…until it came to be believed that only the man who possessed the Crown and Scepter could be the rightful King. And so, the precious, cherished possessions were hidden away, and safeguarded, to ensure they would not be stolen and the throne usurped by a pretender for, without them, no new King of Corinth could be crowned.

Time passed, years into centuries, with no change in the ancient ritual of coronation. Aison was the last duly crowned King of Corinth but he has been dead for six months. Soon it will be the turn of his son, Jason, to carry the Scepter and bear the Crown of Athena...

His arms crossed, the handsome young prince leaned against the cold stone of the open embrasure staring out across his city and the rich, rolling countryside beyond the walls. Once again, he found himself deeply regretting his father's untimely death, not only because he missed Aison sorely with a grief that was still raw and fresh, but also because he feared he'd ever be the King his father was. Aison had been strong and respected amongst his peers so that even if the wealth of Corinth was coveted, none ever moved against him. And he'd been wise, slow to anger, quick to forgive if not to forget, for a King dare not forget who wrongs him or his land, lest he be deemed a fool too weak to hold his crown. Jason chewed absently on his lip as he bowed his head, feeling the weight of his responsibilities keenly. It was lonely, this business of being a ruler. Those few who did not defer to him were those who might be his most dangerous enemies, for it was only kings, and the emissaries of kings, who did not bow or cavil for favour. For the rest, they were conscious of his rank and power and, however soft-spoken or gentle he endeavoured to be, many feared him because he could destroy them with a snap of his fingers. It was a fearsome thing to hold such power over the lives of others – and worse to know that he had to safeguard his own life while sending others to do his will, perhaps at the cost of their own. It felt cowardly, but a King had to guard his person as he did his people's well being, especially if he had no heir who could rule if he fell.

Sighing, he straightened, readying himself for the morning's council meeting with his closest and most trusted advisers. He was grateful, especially as inexperienced as he was, to have their perspectives, particularly about how to deal with the Romans who had begun to make incursions into Greece. Lucius Mummius Achaicus, Proconsul of Rome and hungry to add riches to both her coffers and his, had sailed across the Middle Sea and debarked on the western shores of the Pelopponese. Mummius behaved as though he was a perfectly peaceful emissary of the Emperor, but the weaponry and might of his army were impressive and hard to ignore. He sought to intimidate and coerce – and, as he'd proved in Patras when the king there opposed him openly, he moved swiftly to answer any perceived insult to Rome's dignity. Patras had fallen and was now little more than another stone in the great Roman road that was fast spanning the known world. Viper that he was, Mummius sought to play Greek against Greek, to have them fight amongst themselves over old insults or hurts, or to prove strength and dominance. The fools who preened under his fawning attention seemed to have no clue that they were but pawns in a bigger game. Jason grimaced, wondering how his countrymen could be so blind. He had to balance the ancient and newly enflamed enmity of both Sparta and Athens who resented and coveted Corinth's wealth. So far, it was a dance of diplomacy, intricate and complex. He had no wish for it to become a song of war.

Gods, but he wished he did not feel so alone. There were moments, and sometimes entire days, when he ached for the carefree life of Cheiron's Academy, when he was but a cadet amongst others. But he smiled wryly to himself at his willful self-deception – for even at the Academy, there were few who were not constantly aware of what he was; many, the majority, only ever wanted to know the Crown Prince and never sought to know the man Jason was becoming. Rare, indeed, and treasured, were those who cared more for the man than the crown.

Jason was about to turn away from the window when his sharp eyes caught the movement of two men approaching over the hills from the north, one tall and darker haired, the other of slighter stature with a mop of golden curls. He watched, not sure he wasn't giving way to wishful thinking, and then a smile broke over his now habitually solemn features and he felt his heart lighten with gladness. Perhaps the gods had heard his barely acknowledged prayer for comrades he could trust? He snorted at his whimsy and of what those two men would have to say about such a sentiment. Nevertheless, he was delighted to see the two friends he valued above all others drawing close. His best friends, Hercules and Iolaus would arrive in less than an hour and he hoped he could persuade them to stay at least until after his coronation. Gods, he'd missed them!

Turning away from his lonely lookout, happier than he'd felt in weeks, Jason loped out of his private quarters and down the long staircase that curved through the stone wall of his palace, calling for his servants to prepare their rooms and a festive lunch to welcome them. Only then did he go his council chamber to meet with the advisers that awaited him.

The dreary meeting only served to dampen the joy he'd felt in those earlier moments. They were all wary of the Romans and knew Corinth was at risk until she was ruled by a crowned King. The legionnaires marching under Mummius' banners were scarcely a week away and drawing closer. Sparta was rumoured to be preparing for war, wanting to take advantage of the brief window of opportunity when Corinth would be unbalanced, for if they could win a victory over the young and inexperienced Prince, they could usurp the throne.

"Not so easily done as that," Narieos, Jason's Chief Councilor, as befitted a descendent of the revered Belleros. "Our potential enemies underestimate our future King. Jason has been trained to his role and is beloved by the people. He is more than able to raise our own armies to defend our walls. Besides," he went on with a warm smile toward his sovereign, "the throne of Corinth can only, ever, be held by the man who holds Athena's Scepter and wears her Crown. These are in safekeeping, hidden where they cannot be found. Is that not true, Prince Jason?"

"Yes, that's true, as all here know, Narieos," the Prince replied soberly.

"Perhaps, to raise our people's spirits and bolster their confidence in Athena's good will toward all who abide here in Corinth, it may be a good idea to bring forth the Crown and Scepter, to show them to the people and remind them that their proper King will be crowned in but a month's time when Helios begins his longer rides, bringing warmth and prosperity again to our lands," Narieos mused with an indulgent tone, and crooked a brow at Jason.

Others were murmuring their agreement, for rumours were flying in the city and, in truth, it was a dangerous time. Anything that would help keep the peace and build assurance amongst the citizens was to be recommended. Jason's gaze dropped as he pondered the idea. Normally, the Scepter and Crown were kept hidden and secure between coronations, but perhaps his councilors had a point. Nodding, he looked to his treasurer, Teneus, as he said, knowing any and all of his utterances carried the weight of command, "Bring the Scepter from its resting place and polish it, my friend. Later this week, I will walk amongst our people and carry it so that they may get a good look at it." Smiling, he added wryly, "Many of the young, myself included, have never seen it!"

"As you wish, Majesty," Teneus agreed, though he was not one who had agreed with Narieos. Better by far, he would have thought, to keep the sacred object hidden until it was needed.

"And what of the Crown, Prince Jason?" Narieos asked humbly. "Will you also have it brought forth to show the people?"

Jason shook his head. "No, it would be presumptuous of me to wear my father's Crown before it is time," he replied solemnly. "Best, I think, if we all wait until Solstice to see it on my head."

Narieos and the others nodded, a ritualized bowing to his will. Looking around at them all, he stifled a sigh. Did they accede because they agreed or only because they believed it was what he wished? How could he govern effectively if no one argued a different view, if only to explore its merits? How could he ever completely trust the advice of men who only sought his favour? But, as he ended their meeting and stood from the table, the others scrambling to their own feet so as not to be sitting while their ruler stood, he told himself he was being unduly harsh. These same men had been his father's advisers and there was no question of their loyalty, both to him and to Corinth. If he began by doubting those closest to him, paranoia would soon drive him to madness. He dismissed them with a smile and went to greet his friends, who should be striding through his gates momentarily.

"Hercules! Iolaus! Come in! Gods, you have no idea how good it is to see you!" Jason exclaimed effusively as he gripped his friends' arms in the warrior's clasp and then hauled them both into warm hugs. "I've missed you."

Laughing, delighted by their welcome, the two younger men slapped the Prince on the back. "Hey, we could've been here a lot sooner if we'd known we'd get this reception!" Iolaus replied, grinning widely, his eyes sparkling as he teased their good friend. "Wouldn't have thought the Crown Prince would be so keen on welcoming hungry wanderers."

Hercules chuckled as he slipped an arm around Iolaus' shoulders. "He's right, Jason. Iolaus' appetite has only grown since we last saw you. He might eat you out of house and home."

Jason just smiled widely as he shook his head. "Well, we'll see," he said as he waved them in. "I've had lunch set out in the dining hall. For now, I'm ready to take the risk and bet the kitchens can fill even his bottomless belly."

Glad to be together again, the three young men made their way through the castle, teasing and jostling. When Iolaus winced once after a playful jab, Jason frowned. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Oh, just a scratch," the blond demurred.

But Hercules over-rode the humble assertion. "He took a lance saving a child in an arena about two months ago," the demigod told the Prince, his expression and tone supplying even more information about how close it had been.

Alarmed, Jason demanded, "Are you all right, Iolaus?"

"Yeah, yeah, nearly good as new," Iolaus assured him, with a pointed look at his taller friend. "It only hurts when I'm hungry, so where's this food you promised?"

"Right here." Smiling indulgently, Jason opened the heavy wide oaken doors to reveal a long burnished wooden table laden with succulent meats, cheeses, peasant salad and bread rolls still warm from the oven. Iolaus groaned as if he'd just been shown a vision of paradise and ambled quickly into the elaborately decorated dining hall. But it wasn't the gilt and inlaid precious stones that impressed him – it was the scent of roast rabbit. "Dig in," the Crown Prince urged as he reached for a carafe to pour their goblets of wine.

Both Iolaus and Hercules had settled into their chairs before he'd sat down, and Jason smiled to himself, grateful that he had these two friends who did not see a Prince when they looked at him and treated him only as their good friend – for that was worth more to him than his title and palace. He toasted them and then claimed his seat, the three of them sharing around platters and bowls, and exchanging news in equal measure.

"You look tired, Jase," Iolaus observed after a while, a hunk of bread in one hand and a chicken leg in the other. "You okay?"

Jason set down his chalice and leaned back into his high-backed chair, one elbow resting on the carved arm. "I guess I am a little tired," he admitted slowly. "All this," he illustrated with a wave around at the elaborate trappings of the hall, "is a little overwhelming when you know you're responsible for it. And between the Romans leering avariciously at our lands, and Sparta and Athens growling greedily in the corners, I wonder sometimes if I'm up to the task. Doesn't make for easy sleep at night."

Hercules frowned as he pushed his pewter platter aside and leaned his arms on the table. "You saying there might be war?"

"Not if I can help it, Hercules," Jason retorted sharply, but then relented. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm jumpier than I thought. It's just that…that I don't feel ready. I'm not the man my father was."

"Aw, you'll be fine," Iolaus soothed, the expression in his eyes solemn. "You're a good man, Jase, and you'll make a great King. I'll bet your Dad didn't feel ready when he first wore the Crown, either."

"I agree with Iolaus," the demigod asserted firmly. "The rulers that worry me are the ones who have no doubts, who are too conscious of their power and jealous of their authority. You're not like that, Jason. You never will be. It's not who you are."

"And, hey, you know we'll help in any way we can," Iolaus added sincerely. "You're not in this alone, Jase."

Touched, the Prince looked from one to the other and then a slow smile lit his features. "Thanks, guys. It's helps, knowing that you're both in my corner."

"So, come on, eat, drink and be merry!" Iolaus chimed, lifting his goblet to toast his friend. "To Jason, who'll be the humblest King in Greece – and the best of the lot!"

They all laughed as they drank, and had barely set down their goblets when Teneus, with Narieos close on his heels, burst into the hall. "Your Majesty!" he cried, obviously overwrought. "The Sceptre – it's gone!"

"What?" Jason exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "What do you mean, 'gone'?"

Hercules and Iolaus exchanged a wary glance as Teneus hastened to explain. "I went to retrieve it from its hiding place, as you'd ordered, Sire," the treasurer rushed on. "But…it has been taken."

"By the gods," Jason cursed, a breath of air. And then murmured, stricken, "Has Athena turned her face against me?"

"Just wait a minute," Hercules counseled as he looked from Jason to the two senior advisers. "Are you saying the Sceptre has been stolen?"

"What scepter are we talking about, anyway?" Iolaus interjected quickly, scowling at Jason's sudden pallor.

"Kings of Corinth cannot assume the throne unless they are seen to wear the Crown and carry the Sceptre that Athena gave my ancestor, Bellerophon, centuries ago," Jason explained distantly, sounding stunned.

"Oh, that Sceptre," Iolaus replied, with a quick look at Hercules. This was bad. Very bad.

"Who knew where it was hidden?" the demigod demanded, looking from Jason to Teneus and Narieos. "Who could have stolen it?"

Narieos shook his head and wrung his hands in concern. "Only the Prince and his most trusted advisers, the elders of our State, knew where the Sceptre was kept. There are none who would steal it!" he asserted strongly, angered by the slander that one of them might be a thief and a traitor.

"Well, it didn't walk away by itself," Hercules rejoined sardonically. "And I can't imagine Athena bothering to collect it in silence and secret. Not her style."

"What of the Crown, Jason?" Narieos demanded. "How can we know it's safe and not also taken?"

"Good question," Jason rasped, wiping a hand over his face as he tried to pull himself together. Hercules was right. This wasn't about a goddess judging him unworthy. It was theft and treachery – an attempt to weaken Corinth by denying her a King. Straightening, he ordered, "Have horses prepared for myself and my friends. I'll be gone for the rest of the day and perhaps the night. In the meantime, no one but us is to know that the Sceptre is missing. We'll get to the bottom of this and get it back."

"We've got nearly a month, after all," Iolaus noted with a careless shrug. "No sweat."

Jason gazed at his stalwart friend. "I hope you're right, Iolaus," he said quietly. "But standing here won't get it back." He turned again to his senior advisers, who were still frozen in shock at the loss of the priceless and irreplaceable possession. "Go. See to the horses. And be calm. I don't want anyone in the castle or town alarmed."

"But, where are you going, Jason?" Narieos exclaimed. "Surely the Crown is here, in the palace! You need to bring it forth, to verify with all the advisers that it, at least, is safe."

"The Crown is safe, of that I am confident," Jason assured the older man. "But there is someone with whom I must consult – someone my father entrusted with all that was most precious to him." Moving to wrap a strong arm reassuringly around Narieos' shoulders, a man he'd known and relied upon since he'd been but a boy, he added warmly, "Be at peace, my friend. We will find the Sceptre and all will be well."

But Narieos shook his head wordlessly, his expression worried. "I hope your confidence isn't misplaced, Jason," he intoned gravely, but there was a tone of pique underlying his words. "I was the one your father entrusted to lead your Council. I repeat, verify that the Crown is where it should be before you chase off after some distant adviser."

"And if not for you, we'd have not checked on the Sceptre and not be aware of this danger," Jason replied steadily as he drew the man toward the doorway. "I am very grateful that you came up with that idea. But, trust me, the Crown is secure. Now go about your duties as if you hadn't a care in the world."

"As you wish," the older man acquiesced, if grudgingly, as he took his leave and Teneus followed him out.

After they'd gone, Hercules asked darkly, "Who knew where the Sceptre was hidden, Jason?"

The Prince shook his head as he turned to regard his best friend. "Only my most trusted advisors and myself, Hercules. Narieos was right – there are none there to suspect. It must have been a highly skilled thief."

Hercules shook his head and exchanged a look with Iolaus, who gazed back with an unreadable look in his eyes but he, too, shook his head. The palace was a big place with countless hiding places. Having been a thief once, the blond knew it sure helped to have an idea of where to look for the valuables.

"When was the Sceptre last seen?" he asked, turning to Jason.

The question caught the Prince off-guard, as he hadn't thought about that. "Why, I guess when my father was crowned," he replied with a sinking feeling. "Thirty years ago."

All of them looked thoughtful at that. The Sceptre could have been stolen at any time since – and be long gone.

But Hercules shook his head again. "No," he muttered. "The only reason to take it is to put your position in question. This is directed at you, Jason, by a traitor who doesn't want to see you on the throne. C'mon. You said there was someone you needed to see."

As they turned toward the doorway, Iolaus asked, "Where are we going, anyway?"

"To the Academy," Jason said quietly lest anyone overhear them, and didn't elaborate as he resolutely led the way outside.

They rode out through the city sedately, as if on nothing more than a leisurely hunt, but once they were clear of anyone watching from the walls, Jason kicked his horse to greater speed and shifted the direction he'd originally set, to head toward their real destination. Iolaus leaned forward, the wind ripping his curls and he grinned exuberantly despite the seriousness of the situation, delighting in the speed. Hercules, though, never comfortable on horseback, clung to the reins more tightly and sat more stiffly in the saddle, looking oddly graceless, unlike his elegant easy stance on the ground. From time to time, Iolaus glanced back over his shoulder, watching for signs of anyone tailing them, but didn't see anything. Still, he didn't relax his vigil during their journey.

When they thundered through the gates of the Academy, a cadet gaped at the sight of the Prince of Corinth and then ran to get Cheiron. The three former cadets were just dismounting when the centaur appeared and moved sedately to greet them.

"Prince Jason," he acknowledged with a curious light in his eyes, "and Hercules and Iolaus. Welcome. But I didn't expect to see any of you back to visit quite so soon."

"Cheiron, it's good to see you," Jason replied warmly. "I wish I could say this is a social call, but it isn't. I need to speak with you urgently."

"By all means, come in," their old Master allowed gravely.

"We'll, uh, just take care of the horses," Iolaus offered delicately, not wanting to intrude on what was probably a private conversation of state matters.

"Thank you," Jason replied with a slight smile, appreciating the gesture. Looking from Iolaus to Hercules, he added, "We won't be long."

"So, Jason, what is this urgent matter that you wish to discuss?" the austere centaur asked once they were alone in his office.

Sinking into a chair, shaking his head at the silent offer of wine, Jason sighed, "Bellerophon's Sceptre has vanished, been stolen."

When Cheiron gave him a sharp look and demanded, "When?" the young Prince replied with a shrug, "We can't be certain. But Hercules thinks it's to prevent me being crowned at Solstice. He could be right. This couldn't happen at a worse time. Mummius and his legions are poised to snatch up rich prizes for Rome and he's been wooing Sparta and Athens, trying to goad them into attacking Corinth."

"And when all are weakened by war, he'll move in to provide stability and support – and take charge of all three City States," Cheiron added dryly with an approving nod. "Your appreciation of the threat to Greece is encouraging. I assume, therefore, that you are working to maintain the peace."

"Yeah, but it's not been easy," Jason admitted. "Until I'm actually the King, no one takes me too seriously. They might not then, either, thinking me too inexperienced to resist assault."

"Then they'd be making a grave error," Cheiron retorted mildly amused. But he sobered as he added, "However, someone does not underestimate you so badly. By taking the Sceptre, they are trying to ensure you never are crowned King."

Jason nodded and then leaned back in his chair. "I'm assuming the Crown itself is safe, or you would have told me differently."

"It is secure, and has been since Aison brought it and you to me for safekeeping," Cheiron agreed. "So, you suspect Mummius is behind this?"

"Yes, I do," Jason agreed soberly and then leaned forward intently. "Which makes getting the Sceptre back very tricky. I can't attack without insulting Rome and bringing her full wrath upon Corinth. We can hold our own against the incursions of other Greeks, but would be overwhelmed by the Empire's might."

Cheiron studied the young man, weighing his words and judgment, and then looked away, considering the problem. "If Mummius has the Sceptre, he could assert that the gods are showing him favour and signaling their support of Rome's rule over Greeks," he mused, shaking his head. "But he'd need the Crown to be truly convincing. The legend of Bellerophon is too well known and respected. But – Mummius couldn't have gotten the Sceptre out of the palace on his own; he'd need someone from the inside to help him." Giving Jason a piercing look, he went on bluntly and without compromise, "You have a spy in your midst, Jason."

Nodding unhappily, the Prince had to agree. It was the only thing that made any sense.

"Perhaps," Cheiron suggested quietly, "you need to send a spy to foil a spy."

Intrigued, Jason looked up from his dark study of the floor. "A spy? Someone the Romans wouldn't suspect?"

"Exactly," the centaur agreed, warming to his idea though not without knowledge of the hazards. "It would be dangerous for the man chosen. You could never acknowledge him if he were caught – it would have to appear that he was a simple thief, not your emissary, or it could be construed as an insult to Rome. And it would have to be someone you trusted absolutely, who would never speak of the matter or reveal his affiliation if he were caught. You need, in fact, a truly capable thief, as the prize is probably securely locked and guarded – but also one who is nimble, cunning and courageous."

Understanding dawned in the Prince's eyes as he gazed into the dark, knowing depths of Cheiron's intense gaze, and then he shook his head adamantly. "No, it's too dangerous. I won't risk him that way. Being crowned King isn't worth it!"

"Isn't it?" Cheiron scolded sharply, once again the wise tutor. "Corinth is one of the strongest and most powerful states in Greece. Your navy is four times stronger than that of Athens, your nearest competitor for mastery of the seas. Your army is skilled, and of sufficient size to give even Sparta pause. Corinth is the crossroad in the centre of our land, by land or by sea, and its trading capital. Pivotal, wealthy, a fine prize for the Romans, indeed. Your duty is to your people, Jason, however much you love your friend. The future of Greece is surely worth the risk of one man's life, however precious that life might be to you…and to others."

Jason stared bleakly at the centaur. Cheiron was right, of course, but he'd never loathed his responsibilities more. Looking away, he stubbornly shook his head, his heart ruling where his mind said he was a fool; for sending his own spy was, no doubt, his best and maybe only hope. "I can't ask it of him," he said, his voice low and trembling. "The odds… the odds are terrible. One man against the legions Mummius has with him? I could be sending him to his death."

"I suggest we ask the man in question – and once he understands the situation, I doubt you'll have to ask for his help," Cheiron replied soberly. "If Corinth is lost to the Romans, a great many lives may be at risk and he amongst others will go to war to drive the invaders out. I suspect the chance of avoiding that outcome will be a risk he'll volunteer to take."

Swallowing, Jason hung his head and sighed. And then he looked back up at Cheiron and nodded, allowing the Master of the Academy to go to the door to send for Hercules and Iolaus.

And then Cheiron wordlessly poured a clay goblet of watered wine and held it out to the Prince, who took it and downed it, to get the bad taste of power and responsibility out of his mouth.

They waited in silence, there being nothing more to be said, until they heard the clump of booted feet in the hall and the two they awaited entered the room. Cheiron waved them to the chairs beside Jason, and then succinctly laid out their suspicions and the threat that faced their land. Hercules stiffened when Cheiron explained that the best option seemed to be to send a single man into the Roman camp, to determine if the Sceptre was there and, if so, to steal it back. But Iolaus remained relaxed, slouched in his chair and nodded slightly as he listened closely to the centaur's words. When the centaur began to list the dangers, however, he sat up and waved off the words, cutting in disparagingly, "A man could get hit by a chariot crossing the street. Where's this camp?"

"Five days' ride from here, on the outskirts of Patras," Jason replied, his voice taut, and his eyes dark with foreboding. "Iolaus, I – " he began, intending to deny the plan, to insist there had to be another way.

But the blond warrior interrupted his words. "I'll leave immediately."

"Iolaus, you've barely recovered from – " the demigod protested, but Iolaus cut him off.

"I'm fine. We've been dawdling our way through Greece for weeks now. I can manage what amounts to a reasonably easy ride and a stroll in and out of the Romans' camp," Iolaus insisted, casting a dark look at his friend, resentful as ever of coddling.

Hercules' jaw tightened as he looked from Iolaus' determined expression to Jason's haunted face, and then he asserted firmly, "I'll go with you."

"Ah, Herc, you heard Cheiron," Iolaus argued but not hotly, understanding the concern and the desire to back him up, and grateful for it, "it'll be hard enough for one anonymous man to sneak in and out of that camp. Trust me, I can do this."

"Look, I understand why we need to do this for Jason and Corinth, even for Greece, but if things go bad, I'd be the only backup you'd have," Hercules argued back. "I'm going."

"Herc, would you just think about it for a minute?" Iolaus started again, his tone and manner conciliating but no less contradictory. "Like Cheiron said, all that's needed is a good thief – and I was the best there was," he added with mixed cockiness and chagrin. "Nobody will suspect anything, why would they? I'm a nobody. But if they spotted you, well, that's something else entirely. Really, I'll be fine," he asserted, hoping it would all go as simply as he was making it sound. Besides, he figured, if he got into trouble, Jason would need Hercules to lead an armed assault – taking the Romans would require all the might they had and then some. Cajolingly, he added, "In, out, smooth as silk, no sweat."

"Iolaus is right, Hercules," Cheiron jumped in firmly. "You are needed elsewhere. Clearly, there is a spy in Corinth and we have no idea of the forces that may be aligned against Jason within the ranks of those he trusts. While Iolaus is retrieving the Sceptre, the two of you need to catch a spy. We have less than a month to secure the throne of Corinth and ensure the rightful King is crowned."

Hercules glared at his former Master, not liking the odds one bit. Jason shook his head, understanding the demigod's disquiet and sharing it wholeheartedly; with bleak misery he said, "I don't like it, either, Hercules. If you can come up with another strategy, believe me, I'd be all for it."

The demigod looked at Jason and didn't doubt the Prince's honest desire for any other plan, and then at Iolaus' resolute expression. He bowed his head and thought furiously, but couldn't come up with another feasible idea and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"So, how will you trap this spy?" Iolaus asked, wanting to divert his best friend's attention and concern to other matters.

Sighing, Hercules licked his lips as he thought about it. "We'll need the Crown," he finally said into the silence. Looking up, he added, "It's the only thing that might draw the guilty party out into the open. It's a risk, Jason, I know that. You could lose everything."

"If I don't get the Sceptre back, I won't need the Crown," the Prince asserted, his voice tight as he then gazed meaningfully at Iolaus and added with hoarse sincerity, "and I'll have lost a lot more than the throne could ever be worth to me."

Iolaus flushed and bowed his head, his throat suddenly thick. But he nodded in mute acknowledgement, touched beyond words by the emotion in Jason's voice and eyes.

By the time they had fleshed out the ruse they'd employ to draw out the traitor, and had eaten the evening meal, it was too late to head back to the palace and the others prevailed upon Iolaus to wait until morning before heading out to the Roman camp. Though he was anxious to leave, time being of the essence, it made sense to start his mission well rested. The four friends lingered around the fire in Cheiron's quarters, reminiscing about their years at the Academy, laughing and teasing one another, storing up memories because, though none said as much, they all knew this might be their last night together.

It was just after dawn when they gathered in the forecourt, their horses saddled and ready to go. Hercules and Iolaus had backpacks slung over their shoulders, and Cheiron carried the ancient leather chest he'd retrieved from its hiding place. The young men shuffled a bit, uneasy with the ritual of departure and good-byes, the import and risks of their respective missions weighing heavily upon them.

Jason reached to grip Iolaus' shoulder, as he said huskily, "You do know how much it means that you would do this for me?"

"Yeah, I know," Iolaus replied steadily, with a soft smile. "Don't worry, Jase. It'll all work out fine. You'll see."

The Prince nodded and then pulled the younger man into a fierce hug. "Be careful," he whispered. "Come back to us."

"I will."

And then Jason ceded his place to Hercules who bit his lip as he gazed at his best friend, his blue eyes clouded with concern. "I hate seeing you go alone," he finally sighed. "It's not that I don't think you can do this. It's just that, well, we usually watch each other's back, you know?"

"I know," Iolaus agreed and then he added gravely, "You be careful, you hear me? The two of you have no idea of what you're up against. At least I know who to watch out for – but you, you won't be able to tell friend from foe. So, it makes sense that Jason needs you more than I do, to watch his back, okay?"

Hercules nodded and, as if drawn by an invisible thread, they stepped toward one another, to hug tightly.

"Be careful. Be safe," Hercules murmured, his voice unsteady.

"You, too, buddy," Iolaus urged.

And then they drew apart and all three mounted. Cheiron handed the small chest up to Jason, who tied it securely with braided rawhide strips to his pummel. "Good luck," the centaur offered as he stepped back and raised a hand in farewell salute. They nodded solemnly and kicked their horses into motion, riding sedately out of the Academy's gate, but once clear, Iolaus gave his comrades a grinning wave and then urged his mount to greater speed, splitting away to ride toward the western hills. The others watched until he was gone from their sight, and then they, too, picked up their pace north, to Corinth.

Iolaus set a fast but not excessive pace, as he had a long way to go and he didn't want to wear out the magnificent roan stallion Jason had loaned to him. He angled up through the hills, heading for a pass that would take him to the flatter land by the beautiful waters and beaches of the Bay of Corinth. An expert horseman, he leaned slightly forward over his mount's withers and neck, the mane and his hair whipped back by the wind. Alert to his horse's breathing and gait, he slowed from time to time to give the animal a break, and when they stopped for water, he took care not to let the stallion drink too fast or too much of the refreshingly cool spring or river water. Not wanting to lose time, he ate the mid-day meal, from the supplies Cheiron had given him, astride; if he could maintain the pace, he could cut the journey down by a full day.

As the first day waned, and the shadows lengthened in the cooling air, he thought about Hercules and Jason, and wondered how their ploy was proceeding.

The Prince and the demigod rode in through the city gates at a leisurely pace, not wanting to convey any sense of urgency or trouble to the populace. As they made their way along narrow, crowded streets, people hailed their Prince with bright smiles and fondness in their eyes, for Jason was a favourite, well beloved by those he ruled. No one took any particular notice of the aged leather chest roped to his saddle as he waved back, calling out greetings and good wishes for the day.

Hercules rode slightly behind his friend, a peaceful expression on his face, but his eyes were watchful as he scanned the crowd, looking for any who might be hostile to Jason. But their journey to the palace passed untoward, and soon they were dismounting in the cobbled courtyard by the broad marble steps that led to the high entryway. They'd barely entered the cooler interior, dim after the brightness of the sun, when Narieos and Teneus hastened to join them, having been alerted to their arrival by a servant.

"Jason!" Narieos called in relieved welcome; he'd been worried when they hadn't returned the night before. His tension seemed to ease even more when he noted the small chest Jason was carrying.

"My lord!" Teneus bowed in his turn. "So, your mission was successful?"

"That it was," Jason assured them. "Come, we must gather the Council, to brief all on the plan I've devised. It's time they knew of the danger we face, so that we can all be alert to trap a traitor."

Hercules remained silent as he followed Jason up the long staircase, his backpack over his shoulder, and into the small, circular chamber where the Council met around a round polished wooden table. Light streaked in from the high embrasures, and tapestries hung upon the stone walls. Thick, warm carpets were scattered over the stone-paved floor and there were iron stands and sconces holding thick red candles, though they weren't lit as the day was bright enough. Hercules dropped the pack to the floor by his feet when he took a seat beside Jason, who laid the chest carefully on the table. In minutes, the room was filled with middle-aged to nearly elderly men, and each bowed to the Prince before taking his place at the table. Waiting until everyone was settled, Jason noted the curious glances directed toward the chest and forced himself to smile as if all was well with the world. But, as quiet descended upon the room, his expression sobered as he leaned forward to address them.

"My friends," he began, looking at each of the half dozen men in turn, "I regret to tell you that there is treachery afoot." Puzzled and startled looks met his gaze from those who did not know what had transpired, while Narieos and Teneus gravely studied the table. "The Sceptre of Bellerophon has been stolen from its secret place in our Treasury!"

Gasps of dismay, verging upon horror, and wide appalled eyes met his own. "When?" one called out. "Who would do such a thing?" another queried, stunned, while a third swore under his breath.

"Good questions," Jason approved. "We believe the theft was recent, and may well have something to do with Lucius Mummius Achaicus and the encroachment of Roman legions upon our land. If my coronation could be blocked and my right to lead Corinth be called into question, we would be weakened in the eyes of our neighbours, Sparta and Mycenae to the south and Athens and Thebes to the north."

"What are we going to do, Sire, to retrieve the Sceptre?" Narieos asked quietly. "You said you had a plan."

"I do," Jason replied with unhesitating confidence. "I have set events in motion to retrieve the Sceptre, and I have retrieved the Crown from its hiding place, to ensure it is safe in my keeping."

"But, where exactly do you think the Sceptre is, my lord?" Teneus asked, frowning.

"In the Roman camp," the Prince said flatly. "Clearly, there is a spy, a traitor, who has access to the Treasury here in the Palace. Tomorrow, Hercules and I plan to go to the Shrine of Athena, and call upon her to reveal this traitor to us, and to lend her good grace to our efforts to retrieve the Sceptre."

"But, perhaps," Teneus mumbled, unsure if his thoughts should be spoken aloud, "the Goddess has turned her face against Corinth – and against you."

"She has not," Hercules spoke for the first time, his voice firm and, given that she was his sister, they dared not doubt his word.

"There is nearly a month before the Sceptre and Crown must be employed in the coronation," Jason reminded them, then. "We have plenty of time to recover what has been stolen. I wanted you all to be aware of what has transpired so that you can keep a wary eye and help Hercules and I catch the traitor who lurks in the palace."

They nodded gravely, but none had a clue as to how to go about recognizing such a traitor, if indeed there was one. It was all speculation on the part of the Prince, but they were all too tactful to say so aloud. But the advisers were deeply worried, nonetheless. Without the gifts from Athena, they could not claim her protection or approval of the man who sat upon their throne. The people, ever superstitious, would be terrified that all matter of calamities would descend upon their city – everything from plague to conquest. Their enemies would be emboldened even as merchants would shun them and take their business elsewhere. Corinth could be ruined in a matter of months if that Sceptre was not recovered, and soon.

Teneus, ever a stickler for detail, gazed thoughtfully at Jason. "Sire, you've said that you've initiated action to recover the Sceptre, if it is in the Roman camp. But how can that be done? Surely you haven't sent a troop of your Palace Guard, the elite amongst our army, to contest its possession? Such an unsubstantiated accusation would inflame Roman resentment and might well result in armed conflict with the legions Mummius has brought with him."

Jason's gaze faltered as he cast a quick look at Hercules, who had stiffened. They'd discussed what to say if such a question was asked, but the demigod disagreed with the candid reply the Prince felt his most trusted councilors deserved. Jason had argued that he'd known these men all his life and couldn't believe any of them was the traitor, but Hercules didn't know them and remained suspicious of those who had the most knowledge and the most opportunity to wreak havoc. He was, accordingly, very uncomfortable with revealing Iolaus' mission to anyone.

Taking a breath, Jason tried to find a half measure. "Someone I trust absolutely and who has the skills and the courage, the daring, to sneak into the camp and steal the Sceptre back, is already on his way," he told them all.

"One man?" Teneus exclaimed, not sure whether to be astonished or appalled.

Narieos, astute as always, looked from Jason to the demigod and suddenly realized someone was missing. "You've sent Iolaus," he surmised, nodding sagely. "Set a thief to catch a thief," referring to the young warrior's past. "Brilliant, if risky. He may not return with the prize."

"Iolaus is no longer a thief," Jason snapped sharply, inadvertently confirming the older man's guess. "He has my perfect confidence and he's the only man I can imagine, and would trust, to be successful in this hazardous undertaking."

"I meant no slur, Jason," Narieos hastened to say, his hands lifted for peace. "Truly, if any one mortal can retrieve the artifact, it would be someone like your friend, who is unknown by the Romans but still highly qualified for the job."

Mollified, Jason nodded. Hercules, however, sat like a stone as his hard gaze flickered over the councilors, a hollow feeling in his gut. If Jason was wrong to trust these men, they might very well have betrayed Iolaus to the enemy – and cost their friend his life.

"Take this," the trusted adviser, sitting at his desk in the shadows barely illuminated by a single candle, said to the messenger, as he held out a bound scroll, "and here is a map, to aid in its delivery. Hurry, boy! There is no time to be lost!"

The youth nodded and scampered from the palace, loyally fulfilling his assigned task.

The councilor watched him go and smiled coldly. That runt had a headstart, but no earthbound horse could match the speed of Pegasus! The Romans would be warned in good time – and the thief sent to spy and retrieve the Sceptre of Bellerophon was a dead man.

Iolaus banked the fire after he'd finished eating the rabbit he'd caught after stopping for the night. Though he might have kept going, he knew he had to give his mount some time to munch grass and let tired muscles rest. And, though he was loathe to admit it, even to himself, his own energy wasn't quite back up to par and he still wearied more easily than he liked. Stiffly, he stood away from the fire to check on his horse, stroking its silken coat approvingly. After murmuring low nothings to the steadfast stallion, he wandered down to the shore to watch the waves slap gently onto the sand. The water glistened under the intermittent glow of the moon and, above, clouds scudded like wraiths across the night sky. It was a pleasant night, the air balmy, the slight breeze off the water soft and fragrant. Looking up at the sky, he took a deep breath, enjoying the moment and letting some of the stress he carried – a well-hidden worry that he wouldn't be good enough to help Jason – ease from his back and shoulders, and he smiled softly. He would do his best – and hope with all he was that it would be enough.

He took a last look up at the moon and stars, his gaze caught by a flutter across Luna's face, there and gone. His eyes narrowed as he searched the skies, but he saw nothing more and shrugged, assuming it was only a bird, a night hunting owl maybe. Turning, he left the shore and slipped back into the shadows under the trees. He had to get some sleep before Helios began his morning run.

The next morning, Jason personally carried the small, leather chest from his chambers out of the palace. Once again, he laced it to his saddle and then mounted, while Hercules paced at his side, the councilors following sedately behind. The distance to Athena's Shrine wasn't far – was, in fact, just off the main market area in the centre of the city of Corinth. The early shoppers watched them curiously as they passed by and turned into the wide lane paved with marble that led to the beautifully crafted temple. Hercules looked at the familiar columns that rose high above their heads to support a capital decorated with classical friezes. The whole temple was brightly painted, and the carvings and statuary looked so vibrant as to be alive. He shook his head, dismayed by the fortune that would have been spent to fashion such a magnificent house for Athena, thinking how the dinars might have been better used. But few shared his disenchantment with the gods. They were his family and he knew them for the petty creatures they could be – it had been years since he'd been impressed by their power or mystery.

Nevertheless, to support the charade, he mounted the flight of steps behind Jason, conscious of the gaggle of court advisers on his heels, and entered into the dim, cool interior. Inside, the décor and design was as intricate and beautiful, as lovingly fashioned by master craftsmen and sculptors, as the exterior. They strode to the altar, a solid slab of amber marble that seemed to glow in the light cast by torches and candelabra. Jason reverently placed the chest upon the altar and then stepped back to drop to one knee, his head bowed.

"Athena," he called out, though not loudly, as if knowing she was nearby. "I humbly ask your indulgence in supporting my coronation when the season changes, and your continued benevolence in keeping Corinth strong and secure."

The men clustered behind to witness the appeal to the goddess gasped as a light began to glow around the ancient chest. Hercules rolled his eyes, vastly unimpressed with his half-sister's theatrics, but he lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. Jason kept his head bowed, as befitted a humble supplicant, but he did not have to wait long before a rich voice called to him, "Rise, Jason of Corinth, and know I am pleased by your reverence."

Looking up, and then slowing standing, the Prince and the others saw Athena gradually coalesce from a mist that sprang from the air, until she was standing before them, radiant in her glory. She glanced at the chest and quirked a brow. "You have no need to return gifts freely given," she said, the trace of a smile on her lips.

"Thank you," he replied, humour flickering in his own eyes.

But her visage became stern and he swallowed at the flash of danger in her gaze. "However, gifts given should be well cared for and cherished. It is not for me to give them again, but for you to retrieve what has been lost – all that has been lost. You have the means at hand and I trust you will use your opportunities wisely."

"I will do my best," he assured her soberly.

"I'm confident that you will," she returned. For a moment, her gaze lifted to drift over the awed councilors and then came to rest upon the demigod. "Hercules," she acknowledged with a slight, stiff inclination of her head, "you know the rules. This is within your sphere, more than it is mine." With a flickering look at Jason, she continued obliquely, "You have chosen your friends wisely, but I caution you to not be careless with them, lest you lose what you cherish most."

Hercules felt a chill of foreboding at her words and stiffened, but before he could demand more clarity, she vanished from their sight.

"You have her favour, Prince Jason," one councilor murmured behind them.

"But it seems you must strive to keep it," Narieos observed carefully.

Jason nodded wordlessly as he turned to gaze at Hercules, his eyes dark with despair. "What have I done?" he whispered hoarsely, his words too low for those behind them to hear. He had understood her warning as clearly as had the demigod.

"Trusted too readily, perhaps," Hercules rasped in return. But then he cleared his throat and shook his head as he continued softly, leaning toward Jason so none other could hear, "But she didn't really say more than we already know. There's little choice but continue to search out the traitor and…and hope the day's lead Iolaus had is enough."

His throat tight and dry, Jason nodded. But his lips were thinned with anxiety and his bearing brittle with tension as he moved to retrieve the leather case from the altar, and then turned to lead his followers out of the temple and into the sunlight.

The procession returned through the city to the palace, and then Jason took the chest back to his own chambers, to keep it close and secure.

Iolaus was pleased with the progress he had made. Slapping the stallion on the neck, murmuring encouragement to the horse as it thundered along the pristine sand, he knew they would reach their destination by late afternoon the next day. He'd slip into the camp that night and retrieve the Sceptre, and be back on the trail to Corinth a full day before Jason and Hercules had thought he would arrive. Grinning in anticipation of the hunt, he felt confident that Fortune was with him and chose to forget that the goddess was fickle in her favour.

Hercules stood by the narrow embrasure, looking out past the city walls to the western countryside and the distant glitter of the Bay. Behind him, Jason sniffed at the decanter of wine; one brow crooked as he nodded grimly to himself and poured two goblets. But instead of offering one to his friend, he turned and went into a side chamber, where he poured the wine into a bucket, and then secreted the wooden vessel under a table. When he returned to the main chamber, Hercules murmured, "Drugged?"

"Or poisoned," the Prince agreed as he handed an empty goblet to the demigod. "There was a slight taint in the scent."

Hercules nodded grimly and then went to sit on one of the plushly-cushioned chairs, his long legs sprawled before him as he leaned back and studied Jason. "It has to be someone close to you," he observed, his tone regretful.

"I know," Jason sighed as he sat opposite his friend. Between them was a table covered with a crimson cloth embroidered with fine gold thread, and upon it was the ancient chest. Shaking his head, he stared at the case in which the Crown had been carried for generation upon generation. "It's hard," he admitted, his voice rough, "to know that someone I've known and trusted my whole life – that my father trusted before me – could be so treacherous. How can I trust anyone, Hercules, when those closest are suspect?"

Hercules grimaced as he leaned forward, and his voice was gentle in reply, "Even the best can be tempted by limitless amounts of gold, and you can bet that's what Mummius offered. I'm sorry, Jason. I know this is hard for you."

The Prince nodded and sighed again as he sat back, his gaze lifting to the demigod's. "Well, we'll know soon. Do you want to make a bet on who it is?" he observed, his tone slightly bitter.

Shaking his head, Hercules gave his friend a slight smile. "No, I wouldn't want to libel an innocent man. I have no better idea than you. But, Jase, remember – one may be a traitor, but the others support you. Your city supports you. It will all be alright."

Gratefully, the Prince smiled slowly and nodded. It would be easy to wallow in the sense of being betrayed, but Hercules was right. He couldn't let the traitor taint his trust in others, as he had tainted the wine.

They both looked at the empty goblets and then at one another, knowing it was time to take their ruse another step. Each of them assumed a slumped position in their chairs, Jason cradling the chalice over his belly as he allowed his head to drop, as if in sleep, and Hercules let his fall to the floor below lax fingers as he, too, feigned a drug-induced slumber.

And then they had to gather their patience close and wait, silent and unmoving, until the traitor came to claim the Crown. It took a good deal longer than they'd hoped, and muscles were growing stiff and cramping; their tension grew as the afternoon waned and the light slanted through the embrasure. Perhaps they'd been wrong. Perhaps this wasn't going to work and the traitor would not take the risk of being discovered to sneak into the Prince's chambers to claim the Crown. Limbs twitched, and attention wandered in the boredom of slow-moving, dull hours.

But, then, their patience was rewarded and they heard the slight creak of the door on its hinges as it was eased open. There was a light scuff of a boot on the floor and the barest whiff of air disturbed by someone's passing. Still and silent, they waited, knowing these moments were critical and that they were being studied to ensure they were deeply asleep. They sensed more than heard someone moved stealthily between them, headed toward the chest. There was the faintest click of the lock and the leather hinges sighed as the lid was opened.

And then the would-be thief gasped a muffled curse and started backwards, turning quickly, as if to race toward the door, knowing he'd been tricked.

But Hercules was already there, blocking his exit and the traitor knew he was trapped.

"Ah, no," Jason groaned. "Never would I have suspected you! Why?"

"Why?" Narieos echoed, his voice mocking. "Because I loathe you and your forbears. Your precious Bellerophon killed my ancestor, and then took all that was won for his own – and made us little better than servants for all time. I vowed, when I was but a child, to wreak a just revenge! Your father was already on the throne, you a brat of eleven when I came to the palace to be trained for my role as your subordinate – and I despised you. But I consoled myself that one day – one day I would see you destroyed. And this is that day!"

"You're wrong, Narieos, you've failed," Jason replied, his tone leaden with sorrow. He'd known this man nearly all his life and had never had cause to doubt him. "We'll get the Sceptre back and I will be King. Your betrayal of my trust has been in vain."

But Narieos laughed harshly, his eyes glittering with the light of madness as he spat out, "You are the one who is lost, Jason," he sneered. Looking from the Prince to Hercules, and then back again, he crowed, "You think your man had such a headstart that no one could stop him – but none can travel the land as swiftly as Pegasus flies! The Romans have been warned and await his arrival. The runt is doomed, a dead man who has not yet ceased to breathe."

"What are you saying?" Hercules stormed, grabbing the erstwhile advisor roughly by the arm.

"I'm saying you should rend your clothing and smear ash upon your head in preparation for mourning," Narieos spat at the demigod. "You'll never see that wretched peasant alive again!"

"'All that is lost,'" Jason murmured, echoing Athena's words that morning, only now understanding them. "By the Gods, you have Pegasus!" But it was Iolaus' fate that made his face white with shock and despair.

Hercules was trembling with fury and fear for his best friend. He shook Narieos roughly, but then let go and shoved the man away from him as he struggled with his desire to crush the life from the foul creature. It was but a moment's lapse, but Narieos seized it, laughing hysterically as he scrambled toward the open window and shouting, "I won! I've beaten the house of Bellerophon!" as he leapt to his death on the cobblestones below.

Jason rushed to the window, and then turned away from the sight of the broken body three flights below. He looked up into Hercules' haunted eyes and the man who would be King called out, "He's not yet, dead, Hercules! He can't even have arrived yet – and the Romans will not kill him immediately. They will want to wring a confession from him. If we leave immediately, there is still time to save him! Come. We must go!"

But Hercules shook his head. "No," he replied hoarsely as he strove to quell the violent emotions that raged in his chest and roiled in his gut. "You have to remain here."

"What? Hercules, Iolaus is my friend, too! I will not abandon him!" Jason snapped back as he contemptuously flipped the lid of the empty chest closed. If achieving the throne came only at the price of his close friend's death – and because he had, indeed, trusted too much – then he didn't want it.

"There's no time to argue," the demigod rasped back. Swallowing, he raked his fingers through his hair as he strove to calm himself. "Nothing has changed. We still must retrieve the Sceptre and without the Romans getting proof that you have sent an emissary secretly to their camp." Leveling a hard look at Jason, he grated, "If you let your heart lead you now, then Iolaus' efforts and…and suffering… are all in vain. Don't you see? You must stay, and guard the Crown. Once Narieos' treachery is known, your Council and even the townspeople will be cast into doubt and fear. You must keep order here and be seen to be the confident Prince preparing for his coronation. You don't have a choice, Jason."

"But…" Jason began, and then swore in frustration. "I hate this. I hate sending other men into danger to fight my battles, while I sit in luxury and comfort and wait upon the Fates!"

"I know," Hercules replied softly as he gripped his friend's shoulder. "If being a King were easy, anyone could do it. But this is your destiny, Jase. Besides," he added thoughtfully, "your work here isn't done. Narieos didn't act alone – someone has Pegasus and you need to find out who and where Athena's beast is hidden." Stepping away, he turned toward the door, calling over his shoulder as he went, "You'll find the Crown in the back pack in my room, under the bed. I've got to go."

"Wait, I'll send a couple of my best soldiers with you. If…if Iolaus is still alive when you get there, he'll be in bad shape. You'll need help getting him home," Jason urged as he paced beside the demigod along the corridor and down the stairwell. In minutes, he'd called loudly for horses and the elite of his personal guard.

Hercules, however, disdained to ride – or to wait until others were ready to travel with him. "I can outrun any horse," he muttered, nearly overwhelmed by his sense of urgency to be on his way. "Have them follow after me, and wait in the trees to the east of the Roman camp. I'll find them there." He gripped Jason's shoulder as he said, "I will bring Iolaus, and the Sceptre, home." And then he wheeled away from the men clustered in the courtyard, the palace guard and councilors, servants – all horrified by the spectacle of Narieos' crushed and bloody body upon the stones – and skirted around the milling horses, pushing his way through the crowd until he was clear of the palace grounds and could lope through the town.

Iolaus was in trouble and didn't even know it yet.

But even as he broke into a fast run outside the city gates, Hercules knew with heavy despair that he was too many days behind – too far away to provide the kind of backup his buddy needed to survive. He could only hope that Iolaus' stubborn courage would see him through the torture he'd no doubt have to endure, that his fierce will to live would keep him alive long enough for the demigod to arrive and get him out of Mummius' clutches.

Jason called his Council to order, standing above them, his eyes flashing with anger. "Narieos betrayed all of us!" he snarled. "He stole the Sceptre and his family has been hiding Pegasus for centuries! But he told us too much when he bragged about his triumph over me and Corinth – we know now that he was not working alone."

The men at the table could scarcely believe what the Prince was telling them, but they did not doubt the man inflamed with righteous fury. This was a new Jason, one they'd never seen before. The man standing before them now was no uncertain and diffident prince, courteous and affable, but a powerful man, strong and firm who had trapped a traitor and would do whatever it took to keep their state safe. Finally, they were looking at a King, and liking what they saw.

"How do you wish us to proceed, Sire?" Teneus asked, leaning forward in his chair. "You have but to command us."

Jason looked at him and then the others and, for the first time, he saw respect in their eyes. A part of his soul recoiled from the fact that they seemed only to recognize belligerent strength and had failed to acknowledge his instincts in earlier discussions – had, in fact, been patronizing of him and his youth. But more, he was simply grateful that they would heed him now and do what was required to salvage Corinth and the Crown. He swallowed, wishing it could be so easy to also save Iolaus, but that was out of his hands and he could only hope that Hercules would be successful.

"I want you all to seek out who was aligned with Narieos," Jason growled. "I want to know who carried his messages and I want to know where his confederates are hiding. Go. Get me the information I seek. And get it quickly!"

Iolaus tethered his horse in the forest about a half-mile from the Roman camp. He'd taken his time and scouted the terrain from the top of a hill that overlooked the area, and had watched the sentries, as well as studied the layout of the movable military village. It wasn't hard to spot the location of Mummius' tent, with the flags blowing proudly around it and, though the Romans had built their traditional wooden walls around the encampment, the young warrior could readily see where he'd have cover, especially in the darkness, to make his way over the low barrier. He shook his head. The Romans had become cocky with their power, and careless. They should have dug the prescribed ditches all the way around, and removed the overhanging branches of encroaching trees. But they'd opted to have some shade from the hot Grecian sun and those trees would be his route inside.

He edged closer, waiting for full dark before making his move. There was time. He was a full day ahead of schedule. Chewing on his lip, he considered what he'd observed of the camp and decided that there didn't seem to be any tent, other than Mummius' that had a permanent guard, and so he figured the probabilities were good that the Roman General was keeping the ancient artifact of lineage and power close at hand. He rubbed a hand over his mouth as he thought about that – and realized he'd have to wait until the depths of the night when Mummius would be sleeping, to slip in and out undetected. The former thief fingered the small tools in his belt – a thin, sharp nail, and a twisted, also thin bit of metal – innocuous but useful when picking locks. He carried a knife in his boot, but had left his sword behind with his mount. It was too cumbersome for the night's work. If he found himself in a situation where it would have been useful, then it would have been hopeless anyway, as he was seriously outnumbered by the two legions of Roman soldiers.

He munched on cheese and hard bread as he waited in the long grass just at the edge of the forest, and drank water from a skin on his belt. Though he would have liked something more substantial, he wasn't prepared to risk a fire that might be seen or smelled by the sentries. Though he had no love for the Romans, he did respect their military training – if he was caught, there would be no escape. As he waited, he watched the sky and was pleased to see clouds drift in to cover the brilliant moon. Grinning wolfishly, he slowly made his way in a tight crouch to the clump of trees at one edge of the camp until he could see the sentry and watch to ensure the soldier paced around on a regular routine.

Three times he saw the sentry stroll past, the man's bearing alert and capable. And then, once the soldier had moved on, he ran silently for the trees and scampered up to perch on a thick branch. He waited, listening, but it seemed his one-man assault on the Romans remained undetected. With limber grace, he moved along the branch and then dropped lithely to the ground inside the palisade, and again waited in a crouch until he was certain he'd been unobserved.

Lightly, silently, he moved warily into the camp, avoiding the low burning campfires and sticking to the shadows as he skirted past tents filled with sleeping warriors. He heard the muffled snores and grunts, but froze when he heard the scrape of a boot on the hard-packed earth. Someone was coming straight toward him. Hastily, he looked around but there was no cover, and so he crouched and waited – and when the soldier appeared, he sprang up suddenly, his arm locked as he pushed the base of his palm into the man's throat and then caught the stricken soldier before he fell, to ease his way quietly to the ground. Iolaus grimaced, regretting the necessity of having killed with shocking suddenness, but he couldn't afford to leave anyone behind him who might raise an alarm. He might be playing the thief, but he was a warrior defending Corinth's future.

Swiftly, he laid the body in the shadows against a tent, and then hastened on toward the centre of the encampment. Finally, he arrived at Mummius' tent. There were two sentries at the front, but none in the back. He pulled his knife from his boot and carefully, slowly, sawed the rope that tied the canvas down and tight to the ground. A light sweat broke on his brow as his tension grew, but finally the rope was severed. He slid the knife back into his boot, and then wiped his palms on his pants. Taking a breath to steady himself, knowing this was the riskiest part of his venture, he lifted the loose edge high enough to slither under it and then carefully let it down behind him.

But as soon as he focused on the sounds within the tent, he knew he was in trouble. He could hear too many men breathing in the darkness – and none were snoring. Swiftly, he rolled back the way he'd come, and was scrambling to his feet to race away, but it was already too late. Soldiers converged from all sides with fresh torches lit from the embers of the fires and the flap behind him was thrown up, light already flickering from inside. Still, he didn't intend to be taken easily, and he spun into action, kicking out at the soldiers nearest to him, punching at others who converged. He struggled against the fists that gripped him from behind, throwing his head back to connect hard with the nose of someone leaning too close. He broke free, and whirled, feet flashing – but there were too many of them.

They fell upon him, overwhelming him with the weight of their sheer numbers, and he wished that he thought he was lucky not to have been killed outright. But they were being too careful to keep him alive and conscious. He was hauled to his feet and dragged back into the tent where Mummius awaited, garbed in his full armoured regalia. Clearly, the man had not been asleep. The Roman held out the Sceptre, its golden shaft and head of thickly encrusted gems glittering in the firelight.

"Looking for this?" Mummius taunted with a cruel smile.

"Looking for directions," Iolaus retorted as he struggled against the grip of the men who held him.

"Tch, tch, Iolaus of Thebes," the Roman chided. "I expect the truth from you, not some shallow story of a hapless thief in the night."

Iolaus' eyes narrowed as he stared at the Roman, his expression flat and closed – but it those moments, he knew without doubt that he'd been betrayed. The Romans had been expecting him.

The tall General moved closer, to trace the sharply pointed tip of the Sceptre along his cheek, and loomed over him as Mummius drawled, "You are an agent of Jason's, aren't you? Come to steal military and political secrets. And perhaps pick up a bauble or two. Admit it."

"I could care less about your military and political secrets," Iolaus replied, his chin high. "I was lost and simply seeking directions to Patros. So, if you'd just point me in the right direction, I'll be on my way."

Mummius laughed and then drove the Sceptre into the warrior's gut, causing Iolaus to double over, retching with the sudden shaft of pain and gasping for breath. "More lies. I have no patience with lies. You will tell me what I want to hear."

"Don't hold your breath," Iolaus rasped.

"Take him to the stake," the General ordered briskly. "We'll see if we can loosen his tongue."

He was dragged from the tent, his knees still weak from the vicious blow that felt as if it had gone straight through to his spine, and when he glanced down, he could see blood oozing from the wound caused by the sharp, spherical end of the Sceptre. Grimly, he turned his gaze away from the injury and looked up to see the thick, wooden stake in the open area in front of Mummius' tent. It hadn't been there when he'd scouted from the hilltop earlier. They'd been busy, getting ready for his visit.

His vest was ripped off and tossed on the ground, and his wrists were lashed high over his head, to a hook hammered into the wood, so that he was pulled up until his feet dangled an inch above the ground; the strain of bearing his weight pulled on his arms and strained his chest and gut. He heard the snap of a whip behind him and he gritted his teeth as he pressed his forehead against the rough wood of the pole.

And then he felt the burning slash into the skin and muscle of his back, drawing blood but not from a single cut, for the Roman was using a cat o' nine, the rawhide tipped with sharp brass. He grunted the second time the lash fell, and couldn't restrain a yelp the third time his back was ripped open. He could feel the warmth and stickiness of blood, and pain flared like fire, searing him and taking his breath away. Sweat burst upon his brow and body as he fought the urge to scream.

And still the lash fell. And again. And again. And again.

Until he could no longer contain the scream that tore from his throat.

And still they whipped him, until he was sobbing, barely conscious.

Finally, it was over.

Mummius grabbed a handful of hair and wrenched his head back. "So, are you ready to tell me the truth now, Iolaus?"

The warrior panted for breath as he stared into the cold black eyes, his own gaze bleary. "What truth, Mummius?" he gasped. "The truth that you want to destroy Greece? The truth that you are a viper, looking for any means to pit our Kings against one another? The truth that Rome is a parasite, growing fat on the wealth of other lands?"

The Roman ploughed a fist into his side, hard and fast, rocking him on the pole so that the muscles in his arms spasmed into sudden cramp, and he felt as if he'd never catch his breath again.

"Admit you are Jason's agent!" the General raged, though his anger was cold and vicious, not hot and out of control.

"Jason who?" Iolaus grated in defiance, and then grunted when his body was flipped around, so that his raw and bleeding back was pressed against the rough wood and Mummius gripped his face, smashing his head back against the pole.

"How much pain can you bear, Iolaus?" the Roman snarled. "How much abuse can you take before you break?"

Iolaus' eyes were flat and dull with pain, his consciousness slipping as he stared into the Roman's eyes. "I guess…we'll find out," he rasped hoarsely – and then spit in the General's face.

When the powerful mailed fist slammed into his already abused gut, he didn't have the time or strength to smile with his petty victory, but he gratefully embraced the darkness that swept over him.

Hercules sped through the night, his powerful legs driving into the ground as he pounded toward Patras. He hoped that Iolaus had not yet reached the Roman camp, but he knew his friend well and knew Iolaus wouldn't have wasted any time on his journey. It had been three days since they'd parted at the Academy and the demigod had been running without pause since leaving Corinth, but he was still at least a day away from his goal. With luck, he'd get there just before Iolaus was caught, and be able to stop his entry into the camp.

But Hercules didn't believe in luck, not the good kind anyway – and he was sorely afraid Iolaus would have arrived and made his move already. "Please," he panted, though he wasn't sure what he was appealing or to whom. As he raced on, he remembered the jaunty grin on Iolaus' face and his wave as he'd turned his horse to the west – the laughing eyes and radiant confidence. "Dammit," he growled, feeling dread curl in his belly.

And then he rasped again, "Please."

And he knew then that he was calling to his best friend's spirit, to not give up.

To wait for him.

To be alive when he got there.

For Hercules believed more in Iolaus' spirit and resolute courage than he'd ever believed in the charity of the gods.

Jason paced his chamber through another long and sleepless night. The waiting was hard. His advisors had not yet found the ones Narieos had been working with, so Jason had been thwarted in his desire to engage in some action to vent his pent-up emotions. And, of course, there would be no word from Hercules for days and no way of knowing if Iolaus was safe…or dead. He felt impotent and angry – and a terrible guilt. For Iolaus' betrayal was his fault, his responsibility. He should never have shared his speculations or his plans with the Council. He should have kept silent and let events play out. Damn it! He'd trusted wrongly and a good man would pay the price.

Jason drained the goblet of wine in his hand and then viciously pitched it against the stone wall of his private quarters to shatter into shards that jangled as they fell. Sinking to his knees, he buried his face in his hands and wept – for having sent his friend on such a perilous mission and for having failed the confidence Iolaus had in him.

And for what his friend would suffer, might already be suffering, because Iolaus believed in him.

"I'm sorry," he grated into the silence of the night. "Ah, Gods, Iolaus – I'm so sorry."

Barely conscious, Iolaus yelped at the shock of the scalding, salted water that was dumped over his head to wash down over his bleeding wounds, burning and stinging with a vengeance, and he spluttered as he tried to jerk away, but he was still bound to the thick stake. There was no refuge, no avoidance or succor for the agony. Panting for breath, reaching for control of his reactions, he blinked his eyes opened and looked blearily at the men who surrounded him, laughing at his torment. His Latin was rough, but he understood enough to know they were wagering on how long it would take to break him – and he sniggered weakly, wishing he could get a piece of that action, for he'd then die a rich man.

Mummius yanked his head back, nearly pulling hair from his scalp, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. The Roman was waving a scrap of parchment in his face and he squinted to see it better, wondering at its import.

"I've had your confession transcribed," the General told him, in a consoling, cajoling tone. "All you have to do is sign it and I'll put an end to your suffering."

Swallowing to moisten his parched mouth, Iolaus licked his dry lips and asked hoarsely, as if interested, "Oh, yeah? What does it say?"

"That you stole into our camp on the orders of Jason of Corinth, as a spy, to gather information which could be construed to Corinth's advantage while mocking Rome," Mummius replied as he studied the bruised and bloody man as if Iolaus were an interesting if loathsome insect.

"In-interestin' story," the warrior rasped. "Too bad…to waste the parchment…though…"

Furious, Mummius slammed his head back against the wooden pole and then drove a fist into his belly. Iolaus gagged and sucked in air, white with the pain. "Listen to me, you worthless turd, I'll make you beg to sign this before I'm done with you!"

"Wanna…make a…bet?" Iolaus grated with sardonic hope; maybe there was still a chance to die rich.

The Roman backhanded him viciously and then flicked a gesture at the soldiers surrounding them. "Beat him," he commanded. "Don't kill him – but make him wish he was dead."

The tough soldiers moved in and took turns using their fists and clubs, and then cut him down to kick him with their hobnailed boots. At first, each blow was a misery, but soon they blurred together like a river of pain that washed over and through him, numbing him into bleary half-consciousness. He endured with little more than guttural grunts until, mercifully, the darkness claimed him.

Once again, he woke spluttering and hissing from the scalding water thrown over him, the salt eating at his wounds. He gritted his teeth and ironically considered the salt a good thing for it would keep the wounds cleaner and stave off infection, maybe, for a while. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like he was going to get out of there alive. When he was conscious enough to again take in his surroundings, Iolaus grimaced to find that he was once more strung up, dangling just slightly off the ground. Every bone and muscle in his body, every sinew and patch of skin vibrated with pain so bad that he couldn't keep tears from burning his eyes though he tried to blink them away. Despite his efforts, some slipped over his lashes and dribbled down his face, streaking the dirt on his bruised cheeks.

Drearily, he wondered what day it was and how long he'd been captive. It felt like an eternity, but he supposed it couldn't be more than two or three days. Time seemed meaningless. There was only agony and an increasing desire to have done with it, to die and get it over with. But, Gods, he was sorry to have failed Jason. What would happen now? Would Jase and Herc come up with another way to retrieve the Sceptre? And what was happening with them? Had they found the traitor? Were they all right? His thoughts spiraled and blurred as the agony lanced through his body, muscles cramping and his ruined back a torment. Gods, he was thirsty and he knew it was because he'd lost so much blood. Men could die of thirst in three or four days so, wearily, he figured he wouldn't have to endure much longer.

Mummius smacked his face, rousing him from his introspection, reminding him that it wasn't over yet. When the Roman made a show of pulling a knife from the embers of the nearby fire, the blade white hot, Iolaus closed his eyes and forced back the bile that had risen in the back of his throat. When the General held up the 'confession' in one hand and the weapon of torture in the other, Iolaus held the other man's eyes for a long moment and then shook his head, too sick with the knowledge of the pain that was coming to speak.

Mummius drew the searing blade along Iolaus' arms and ribcage, then jabbed under the flesh of his chest, as if he intended to skin Iolaus alive. The shallow cuts were cauterized as quickly as they were formed, but the tissue blackened and blistered, and the pain was hideous. Iolaus pressed his head back against the pole behind him and gritted his jaw, but couldn't stop the tears that leaked from his eyes. But the Roman wasn't finished with him and was curious to see how much torture the warrior could take before he cried out. Iolaus closed his eyes and hissed when the flat of the blade seared the sensitive inner skin of his left arm, and nearly blacked out. But cold water was thrown into his face, reviving him cruelly. Mummius fumbled with the warrior's belt and the laces of his pants, baring the tender skin of his lower abdomen and snapped his fingers for another hot blade.

When the broad side of the long fiery knife was pressed hard against his body, Iolaus couldn't hold the scream in his throat any longer; a hoarse, low, harried howl of an animal in mortal torment ripped into the air, and he was left heaving for breath when Mummius finished, retching and gagging at the nausea curdling in his belly.

"Perhaps I should make you a eunuch, and keep you as a slave rather than crucify you," Mummius murmured in his ear, hot, stale breath on his face.

"Bastard," Iolaus grated, his voice thin with effort.

"Think about it, Iolaus," the Roman urged with a cold smile. "Think about a lifetime as my slave…a lifetime of this and worse. Dream of it tonight while you hang there, for that is the only way you will live to see another sunset. But if you sign this confession, I'll let you die in the morning."

The warrior held Mummius' gaze, and Iolaus' eyes were dark with loathing. "If you ever untie me," he rasped, "I'll kill you."

The General laughed and shook his head. "We'll see," he chuckled, vastly amused as he turned away. "Until tomorrow, then, Iolaus; rest well, until tomorrow."

Iolaus watched his torturer walk away and disappear into his tent, but it seemed Mummius wasn't quite done with him. Sardonically, the Roman reappeared, the priceless Sceptre in his hands. With a superior look at his captive, Mummius made a great show of placing the hallowed object into a heavy chest and securing that with a lock. The chest was then carried by two soldiers into another nearby tent, and guards were posted.

"You've failed, Iolaus," Mummius called, amused and triumphant in equal measure. "Whether I wring a confession from you or not, Jason will never be crowned King of Corinth."

And that blow struck more deeply, with a grievous anguish far worse than any of the others. Iolaus let his head fall forward as he closed his eyes, bitterly sorry to have failed his friend. His only cold consolation was that the torment and suffering would be over soon. He knew he'd lost too much blood and was too weak to survive the shock of a rough castration, so he had no fears of being that sadist's slave. Whether he bled to death or Mummius simply tired of the game and crucified him, it would end on the morrow.

A great sadness welled in his chest then, for all that he would miss: life with all its pleasures, like fishing on the verge of a quiet lake at dawn, or the warmth of a woman in his arms. He'd never know the satisfaction of watching his own children grow or … so many things; so many dreams that would never be real. His throat tight, he thought then of Hercules and of how his best friend had wanted so much to be there, to back him up. But he figured it was a good thing Herc hadn't come – they would only have both been captured when someone betrayed them. He hoped that his friend would realize that and not feel any pointless guilt. Gods, he'd miss Hercules and he knew, with infinite sorrow, that Herc would miss him, too. He sniffed back the tears that threatened, not wanting the Romans to see him weep with despair.

But his soul wept, lost, alone and in pain, bereft of all comfort and hope. Wept for what might have been.

Hercules crouched on the hilltop overlooking the camp, only paces from where Iolaus had conducted his own surveillance days before. Drenched in sweat, his long hair damp and lank, panting for breath, the demigod gritted his teeth at the sound of Iolaus' hoarse scream, and a growl rumbled in his throat. He had to fight the urge to rush in then and there – but that would be futile and would certainly mean Iolaus' death. So he stared down at the Roman enclave, memorizing the encampment's layout and assessing the options for covert entry.

"I'm here, buddy," he murmured. "Hold on. It'll be over soon."

And then the demigod picked his way down through the forest. He found Iolaus' horse tethered, and from the look of the trampled grass and manure, as well as the well chewed lower branches and shrubbery, he figured the animal had been on the long tether for about three days. He slapped the stallion's neck gently and retied the animal where there was fresh grass but still easy access to the stream Iolaus had found to make sure the beast would have water.

And then Hercules made his way to the edge of the forest to watch the sentries. He was stiff with tension and the deep need to punish those who were brutalizing his friend. But, more than anything else, he wanted desperately to get Iolaus away to someplace safe. The sun sank with agonizing slowness, but even when full dark fell, he forced himself to wait until the camp was quiet. Only then did he make his way to the same tree Iolaus had scaled, leaping up and hoisting himself onto the sturdy branch. In a flash, he was over the wall and moving swiftly in a crouched lope through the shadows. When a half-asleep sentry blundered into his path, one powerful punch rendered the soldier senseless. Slowing as he neared the middle of the camp, Hercules took note of the two guards in front of one tent…and then his gaze shifted to Iolaus, who was dangling from a pole, barely visible in the dim flicker of the fire's dying embers.

Turning his attention back to the guards, Hercules chewed on his lip as he decided upon the move he'd make – he couldn't afford to have an outcry. Slipping around the line of tents, he crept silently to the edge near one of the guards. Picking up a pebble, he flicked it at the man's back. The sentry jerked and looked around, scowling – no doubt thinking one of his comrades, bored with the tedium of being stuck in the camp, was playing a silly, boyish prank. When Hercules flicked another pebble, the soldier grunted and with an expression half of irritation and half of amusement, decided to investigate. He strolled unwarily around the tent and, finding no one there, continued on to the back – where he ran face-first into a powerful fist. Hercules caught the man and lowered him quietly to the ground, and then he just waited, knowing the other sentry would be bound to investigate, if only to break the monotony of keeping endless watch where there was no apparent need. He heard the crunch of a boot and crouched – and then sprang up behind as the guard passed by, to loop one massively strong arm around the hapless man's throat, tightening until he'd choked the sentry into unconsciousness.

And then he slipped around the tent, intent upon getting Iolaus loose.

As he approached his friend, Hercules bent, almost unconsciously, to gather up Iolaus' vest and tuck it into his shirt. The warrior was motionless and didn't appear to be conscious, but when Hercules pressed two fingers against Iolaus' lips, the blond jerked his head up, his eyes squinting as he struggled to see in the darkness – and his eyes widened in astonishment when he recognized Hercules. Iolaus nodded weakly and cast a look up at his bound wrists. When the bigger man looped an arm around him to hold him steady while reaching up to cut the cords, the warrior stifled a moan at the pain of the pressure on his back and ribs. He needed the support, as was abundantly clear when his knees buckled as soon as his boots hit the ground, but Hercules held him upright.

Iolaus gritted his teeth and concentrated on breathing, then nodded again to signify he was all right, and pointed to the nearby tent. Having figured out that the posting of a guard likely meant the Sceptre was kept there, the demigod helped Iolaus across the open ground and into the temporary refuge, out of the way of curious eyes, should anyone happen by and notice their prisoner was gone. Iolaus had been rubbing his hands and fingers together, trying to get the circulation going, though the hot prickling hurt like Tartarus.

"Help me with my hands," he whispered very softly, his voice rough and catching. "I need to pick the lock. Can't risk the noise of breaking the chest open and… and it's too big to carry it and me both," he added sardonically.

The demigod cast a sharp look at his friend, wondering just how badly Iolaus was injured – 'cause he sure didn't usually suggest he might need to be carried. But the darkness was nearly absolute and he could barely make out the warrior's shadowed silhouette. Worried, Hercules took his partner's hands in his bigger ones, and massaged gently but effectively for a few minutes. But he was very aware of the slick, sticky wetness from Iolaus' back on his arm, the sweet, as well as the metallic scent of blood pervading the air between them, and he whispered, "How badly are you hurt?"

"Not so bad that I can't make it out of here with a little help from a friend," Iolaus replied softly with a brief flash of a reassuring grin, and then added with fervent sincerity, "Man, Herc, I am glad to see you!" And then he was crawling slowly away, feeling his way toward the chest, Hercules moving soundlessly behind him. Iolaus pulled the thin bits of metal from his belt, fumbling a bit because his hands were now killing him as circulation returned with a vengeance. It took a lot longer than he liked, longer than it should or would have, if he weren't so dizzy he could barely stay upright and his hands weren't still so clumsy. But he held his frustrations inside, knowing that cursing or complaining wouldn't make the task any easier, and worked silently over the lock until there was a solid click. "Got it," he murmured with a relieved sigh as he shifted awkwardly aside to give Hercules access to the chest.

After easing the padlock away, the demigod carefully opened the lid and reached in to pluck out the Sceptre. But when he placed a steadying arm around Iolaus, to help him to his feet, the warrior hissed a nearly soundless curse.

"Ah, maybe just let me hold onto your other arm," Iolaus suggested hoarsely. "I'm a…little dizzy, is all. I can walk okay, I think."

Nodding, unable to assess his friend's wounds in the darkness, Hercules held out his arm and frowned when he felt the pronounced tremble in Iolaus' hands as his friend grabbed hold, using him as a kind of pole to climb up onto his feet. The warrior's breath was shuddering and harsh, as if he'd run a marathon in record time.

Warily, they opened the flap of the tent and Iolaus looked longingly toward Mummius' tent, wanting as he'd never wanted before to kill. But there was no time and it would only be a further, senseless risk. The priority was to get away.

Slowly, in deference to Iolaus' 'dizziness', they made their way through the shadows to the wall where both had entered. Iolaus looked up at the overhanging branches and sighed, wondering if he'd have the strength to hoist himself up and crawl along to freedom. But it wasn't as if he had a whole lot of choice. As if anticipating his need, the demigod dropped to one knee and cupped his hands together. Grateful, Iolaus steadied himself with one hand on Hercules' shoulder and lifted one foot onto the clasped hands. Hercules stood and hoisted him up in one fast, smooth motion, as if he were light as a feather, and Iolaus grabbed onto a branch and hauled himself over, biting his lip against the wrenching pain in his ribs and gut, and the protest of his aching arms. As swiftly as he could, he crawled along and over the wooden wall, checked to see that there were no sentries in the immediate vicinity and dropped rather more heavily than was his wont onto the verge on the other side. Hercules was right behind him, and they waited crouched, to watch for the sentry to pass.

As soon as the oblivious soldier had ambled by and out of sight, they began to crawl as noiselessly as possible away from the camp. Though it was night, the moon was bright, and they couldn't risk being seen running across the open ground toward the forest, a quarter-league away.

Though only short minutes had passed, Iolaus soon felt as though they were crawling forever through the long grass. He was so tired and sore, every movement was sheer agony. His back was a constant torment, and something ragged in his chest caught at him, making his breathing hitch so that he could hardly draw in enough air. The burns and wounds tore open, letting more of his blood spill onto the ground and it sickened him to know he was leaving a trail a blind man could follow. His ribs and joints felt raw, as if he were ripping muscle and bone apart with every lurch forward. And he was hot, so hot, though rationally he knew the night had to be cool. It was a dogged act of will to keep moving forward, one hand, and one knee after the other, his eyes on Hercules' boots as he didn't have the strength or energy to lift his head and look around. Like a weary child who could manage the most rudimentary movements, he trusted his friend to guard the precious Sceptre and lead him to safety.

When they'd finally made it to the refuge of the forest, Iolaus really wasn't at all sure he could go any farther. And then shadows moved around them and he heard a horse stamp and blow – and he faltered, fearing that the Romans had caught them. Digging deep, he strove to find the energy and strength to help fight their way out, desperate not to let Herc down, too. Then he heard a familiar voice call softly in Greek, and he recognized the man as one of Jason's finest warriors. The relief that surged through him was immense – and was his undoing. When Hercules stood up to greet the soldiers who had followed behind him, and had only just arrived minutes before, Iolaus also pushed himself to his feet …

… but his vision splintered and his knees buckled as searing pain spiked and spiraled through his body – and then consciousness fled even before he'd begun to pitch forward…

Hercules exclaimed softly, "Iolaus!" and caught him with one arm before he hit the ground. The demigod hurriedly passed the Sceptre to Archimedes, the leader of the small troop of five soldiers sent to give him support, and swept Iolaus' limp body up into his arms.

"C'mon," he called quietly, already striding deeper into the shadows, first to Iolaus' horse, to bring him back to Corinth – with the hope that Iolaus might be able to ride once he'd revived – and then on to the east. "Won't be long before the Romans come after us and I want to be long gone."

But he wished he could stop and build a fire, so that he could check his friend's wounds and bind them. Heat was radiating off Iolaus, and Hercules kept recalling the scream he'd heard earlier – he'd never heard Iolaus give way like that before and he knew the pain that had given rise to that gut-wrenching howl had to have been terrible. But there was no time; they had no choice but to keep moving.

It wasn't until hours later, when dawn finally brought enough light that the demigod could see the extent of the injuries Iolaus had suffered, that Hercules cursed bitterly, appalled and afraid as he realized just how cruelly his best friend had been abused. There wasn't a scrap of skin on Iolaus that wasn't discoloured or torn by bruises and scrapes, or raw and still oozing from the brutal whipping and sadistic cuts and burns. His friend's jaw was swollen and one eye was blackened and puffy. From the sound of Iolaus' ragged breathing, some ribs might have been cracked or even broken.

And the fever was getting worse.

"I hope they rot in Tartarus," Hercules rumbled furiously under his breath as he stopped by a stream and dropped to one knee to carefully lay his friend on his right side, on the cool, dew-dampened grass. Looking up at the soldiers who rode behind them, he said stonily, "I have to treat his wounds before the infection grows any worse."

"We've some basic supplies, Hercules," Archimedes offered as he unlooped a leather satchel from his saddle. "Bandages, some herbs."

"Good, that'll help, thanks," the demigod replied briskly, as he took the pack and rummaged in it, pulling out rags to bathe Iolaus' back and other injuries before binding them. The soldiers spread out to keep watch, while he set about washing dried blood from his own hands and arms and then cleaning up his friend.

Iolaus flinched and moaned softly at the pressure of the rag on his back and Hercules winced in empathy, but infection had set in and he had no choice but to clean the ruined skin and muscle as best he could. "I'm sorry, buddy," he murmured, as he fingers ghosted over Iolaus' face.

The warrior blinked and looked around, his eyes at first clouded by confusion and bright with fever, but when he focused on Hercules, his lips twitched in a parody of his usual grin as he whispered hoarsely, "Not a dream…"

"No, not if you mean the nightmare of crawling away from that camp," Hercules said quietly, smiling softly in return. "I didn't know how badly you'd been hurt."

"S'okay," Iolaus mumbled, weakly waving off the implied apology. "The Sceptre?"

"It's safe, for now," Hercules replied as he reached for a skin of water and supported Iolaus' head while he held it to his friend's lips. "Take it slow," he cautioned.

"Mmm, s'good," Iolaus sighed when he'd taken enough to satisfy his immediate need. His gaze darted around and then he asked, "Where?"

"About five hours walk from the Roman encampment," the demigod replied with a concerned frown. "We still have a long way to go." He hesitated and then went on, "I need to clean and bind your wounds. It's gonna hurt."

Nodding stoically, Iolaus closed his eyes and braced himself for the pain to come. Not that it could be a lot worse than the agony he felt ripple through every muscle and flare on his skin. Hercules' lips tightened and he frowned, wishing he had something strong enough to knock Iolaus out, but he didn't. But going slow, delaying the inevitable, would only make bearing it worse, so he went back to work, being as fast and gentle as he could be.

Iolaus flinched a couple times, and once he couldn't bite back another low moan; he was pale and sweating from the effort of containing the pain by the time Hercules had finished treating his back, and had laid clean linen over the torn skin. Carefully, the demigod shifted him onto his back, and he spasmed in agony before willing his muscles to once again relax. But the cool cloth on his face and body felt good, relieving some of the blinding heat of his fever and he sighed with poignant gratitude.

The demigod grimaced at the sight of the cuts and the nasty burns and he wondered grimly how deep the wounds were and how bad the internal damage might be. When he was washing the dirt from Iolaus' abdomen, he found the shallow round hole, infected like all the others, the area around it swollen and tight. "What caused this?" he asked quietly.

Iolaus opened his eyes to see what Hercules meant and then muttered, "Mummius…shoved the Sceptre into my gut. Punched me a couple times in the same place. Hurts."

"Yeah, I'll bet it does," the younger man rasped roughly, nearly blind with rage and grief.

"Did you get the traitor?" Iolaus asked then as the thought occurred to him.

"It was Narieos," Hercules grated as he kept working over Iolaus' body, cleaning the burns and applying herbs. "Wanted revenge for what Bellerophon did centuries ago." His hands stilled as he looked down into Iolaus' face. "His family has been hiding Pegasus all this time. That was how they got ahead of you, to tell the Romans you were on your way."

Iolaus nodded weakly. "Figured it was something like that – they were expecting me all right. As nice a trap as I've seen in a long time. Really sucked me in." But then the import of Hercules' words hit him. "Pegasus? The winged horse? Really exists?"

"Apparently," the demigod grunted, frowning over the nasty burn low on Iolaus' abdomen. "Athena as much as told Jason she expects him to get the horse, as well as the Sceptre, back."

"Oh, goody," the warrior reflected wryly, his words slurring. "Nothing like a challenge…to keep a guy…on his toes. Why doesn't she just get the damned horse herself?"

Hercules barked out a laugh at the sarcastic, put-upon and definitely irreverent tone. "Where would the fun be in that?" he shot back, though there was more anger than sarcasm in his tone. He hated the manipulation of the gods.

"Mmm," Iolaus agreed, barely holding onto consciousness. But he roused himself briefly to look up at Hercules. "Thanks," he murmured. "He was going to either castrate or crucify me this morning – can't say as either option appealed to me much."

His throat thick, Hercules simply nodded. But he wished he could have gotten to the camp a whole lot sooner than he had. Wished Iolaus hadn't been betrayed in the first place. He cleared his throat and said a little hoarsely, "We can't stay here – they'll come after us. Which'll be easier on you? To be drawn on a litter or carried."

"Carried's faster," Iolaus replied, barely awake. But he grinned lopsidedly as he added, "Just don't think you can make a habit of it."

Once again, a smile flitted over the demigod's lips as he tenderly stroked the matted curls from Iolaus' brow. "I won't," he promised. "Let me know when you need a break. I know it hurts."

"Would hurt more to be castrated or crucified," the warrior observed sardonically, his voice wispy with weakness and pain. "Don't let me slow you down."

But he couldn't help the reflexive grunt when Hercules picked him up, or keep from stiffening against the pressure on his back from the demigod's arm. "s'okay," he panted when he felt Hercules hesitate. "Jus' keep going."

The soldiers wordlessly formed up around them as a protective shield, and Hercules again set the pace, moving as steadily and smoothly as he could to keep from jostling Iolaus. But he was very conscious of his friend's increasingly shallow, uneven breathing and the flaring of the fever. Iolaus needed a healer and rest, not a week long hike through the countryside with Romans hot on their heels.

"Prince Jason, I have someone who wishes to speak with you," Teneus said after knocking and being called into the Prince's private office. "He's just a boy, Sire."

Jason frowned. "He knows something about Narieos?"

"Yes, he says he does, but he's very frightened and he says he will only confess to you," the treasurer said with a frown. "He's a good lad. I don't know what could have him so upset."

"Well, let's hear what he has to say," Jason sighed, doubting that whatever it was would prove to be much help, but waving at Teneus to bring the lad into his presence.

"Come in, Metallus," the older man called to someone just out of sight.

A scrawny boy of no more than a dozen years appeared in the doorway, pale and trembling with fear, and he looked on the verge of tears. He was garbed as a page, one of the many homeless children given shelter by the palace and trained to various duties.

"Come, Metallus, there's no need to be so afraid," Jason urged, his voice studiously soft and unthreatening. "What is it that you wish to tell me?"

"I didn't know, Sire, I swear I didn't know," the boy offered tremulously.

"Didn't know what, lad?" the Prince cajoled gently, though his weariness and anxiety about Hercules and Iolaus, his throne, the danger of the Romans, not to mention the Athenians and Spartans was making him impatient and inclined to testiness.

"What was in the scroll Narieos gave me," Metallus replied in a rush of words. "He just said it was urgent, and he gave me a map to where I was to take it. He was a Senior Councilor, Sire! I didn't – "

But Jason had surged to his feet, interrupting the page as he demanded, "A map? He gave you a map? To where?"

"Yes, Prince Jason," the boy quavered, terrified by the sudden change in the Prince's demeanor and the thunderous look on his face. "To a cave nearly two days' walk from here," he babbled then, near to tears. "I ran all the way and got there the first night, but it's taken me this long to walk back and I only just got here and heard what happened…"

"Do you still have this map? Can you tell me where to find this place?" the Prince queried urgently as he came around the desk to drop to one knee before the lad.

"Yes, Sire, I have it here," Metallus replied as he dug into the pouch on his belt. "I'm so sorry, Sire."

Jason took the grubby piece of paper and studied it for a moment. "Tell me who was there."

"Well, it was a cave, so I couldn't see inside very far," the page replied, his voice taut with anxiety and his desire to please. "There were three men that I saw and they seemed to have set up a camp of sorts, as if they were living there. And, well, I heard a horse whinny from somewhere farther back."

Jason looked up from the map then, and reached out to grip the boy's shoulder as he smiled reassuringly, "You've done nothing wrong, Metallus, and I'm grateful that you came to me right away, as soon as you understood this could mean trouble. That took courage, lad, and I'm very proud of you. Now, go, get something to eat and clean up a bit from your journey. You look like you could sleep until tomorrow."

The kid smiled tentatively, warmed by the Prince's approbation. "You believe me then, that I didn't know? I swear I didn't know."

"I believe you, and you've brought me exactly the information I needed," Jason assured him warmly, and ruffled his short, dark curls. "You've done well, and what happened is none of your fault."

"Thank you, Prince Jason," the child sighed, mightily relieved, and then he scampered away.

Jason stood and turned to Teneus. "Call for a score of my Guard and have them mounted and ready to travel in thirty minutes. We're going to capture our traitors – and recover a long lost treasure!"

Caught by the Prince's excitement, Teneus ventured a smile as he nodded and hastened to do his lord's bidding.

"They're coming!" the young soldier called as he rode up swiftly from his place as their rearguard. "Still about two hours back, but they're moving faster than we are. They'll catch us before nightfall."

Archimedes turned to Hercules and shook his head. If they continued as they were going, all would be lost.

The demigod looked down at his unconscious friend and knew with sick despair that a long, hard, fast ride would probably kill Iolaus. He was already gray under the mottled, hectic flush of fever, his skin drawn over bone, his lips blue with his effort to breathe. And then Hercules looked up at the Sceptre in Archimedes' hand. If it were lost, Corinth and all Greece would follow. There would be no stopping the Roman incursions into their lands.

"Go," he said firmly. "Get the Sceptre to Jason. If you ride hard and fast, you'll be able to stay ahead of them, and they won't dare attack Corinth without cause. "

"I can leave my men," the Guard Captain offered, knowing if the two heroes were captured, they'd be crucified.

But Hercules shook his head. "No, you must all go. Maybe the Romans will assume we're together, and we can take refuge in the hills while they follow you. Do not let them catch you!"

"We'll make it back to Corinth, Hercules," Archimedes replied, his voice tight with grief at having to leave behind the men who had secured their future. "May the Fates and Fortune smile upon you."

"Archimedes," Hercules called as the soldier reined his horse around and lifted his hand to command his men to follow. "Tell Jason…tell him that it was worth it. Neither Iolaus nor I regret our involvement in this. He and Corinth…and Greece… are worth whatever price must ultimately be paid."

Tears glazed the Captain's eyes as he bowed his head, having to fight the emotion trembling in his chest before he could speak. Sniffing, he looked back up and gazed steadily at the demigod as he replied fervently, "Whatever we may win, if we lose the two of you, all of Greece will be the poorer. Take care, Hercules. We want to see you both again."

Hercules nodded solemnly, and turned away to disappear into the trees as he sought higher ground and a place to shelter his friend. Behind him, the soldiers saluted and then wheeled their horses toward Corinth, breaking into a hard gallop as they raced for the future of their land.

The demigod scrambled up the steep slope, his balance precarious as he strove to keep Iolaus secure in his arms. It had been more than a handspan since the troop had left, and he hadn't yet found a place where he could care for, and protect, his friend. His boot slipped on the rotting undergrowth and he jerked sharply sideways to remain on his feet.

Iolaus flinched and whimpered deep in his throat, the sound tearing at Hercules' heart. "Sorry," he murmured, not sure if the warrior was conscious enough to hear him. Iolaus was burning up and pain was etched into lines on his face and in the tight way he held his body curled into the demigod's chest. The Son of Zeus fought the frantic sense of panic that threatened, but he knew if he didn't soon get Iolaus to someone who could help him, his friend would die.

The distant cadence of an army on the move, the thump of boots and clash of steel, and the occasional call of officers, brought him up short. Crouching, he gazed through a gap in the shrubbery and trees down to the beach road and saw Rome's might pass by. Anxiously, he watched, hoping they'd continue on, following the hoof prints in the sand and not notice that the footprints had vanished. He knew no one from below could see them in the shadows and it seemed Fortune was with them, for the legion carried on and finally passed as they hastened east.

"Herc?" Iolaus whispered, his voice thin and strained.

"Shh," the demigod murmured in reply, his eyes softening as he turned his gaze to the blue eyes clouded with confusion and fevered pain. "The Romans haven't spotted us. We can take a break."

"The Sceptre?" the warrior demanded anxiously, his gaze flickering to the shadows around them.

"Archimedes has it and is well ahead of Mummius. He'll get it back to Jason," the demigod reassured his friend.

"'kay," Iolaus rasped, blinking as he tried to stay awake, but losing the battle. "'Cause, if there's any doubt – you know you have to go and make sure…"

"I'm where I need to be," Hercules replied as he held Iolaus close, wishing his grip could comfort and didn't have to hurt the way it probably did. "We need to find a place where you can rest awhile."

"m'sorry, Herc," Iolaus mumbled, his weak voice fading with his consciousness. "m'a lot've trouble."

"No, buddy," Hercules replied softly, his voice nearly breaking, "You're no trouble at all." And then he straightened to continue up the steep hill toward the summit, still searching for safe refuge.

What had been more than a day's journey for a boy ambling on foot, was only a matter of hours for men well-mounted and riding fast. Powerful hooves ate up the ground, sending chewed chunks into the air behind them. When they neared the secret cavern, Jason held up his hand, silently signaling more caution and they proceeded apace, warily, weapons drawn.

The confrontation when it came was anticlimactic. There were but four scruffy, bearded men sharing their meager supplies around a campfire, for the payment for their treachery was contingent on Jason not being crowned on Solstice morn. They fell back, startled by the invasion of so many armed warriors, and then fearful as they read the fury in the young Prince's eyes.

"I am Jason," he told them coldly. "And your game is done. Where's Pegasus?"

One man lifted his chin defiantly and waved his comrades to remain silent. The Prince's eyes narrowed dangerously as he prowled like a cat on the hunt toward the one who was clearly the leader of the ragtag band that had done such damage. "You were the one," he grated, rage in his heart, "the one who rode Pegasus and betrayed Iolaus to the Romans."

"Aye, and I'd do it again," the outlaw crowed, proud of himself. "You may have caught us, Prince Jason, but you'll never be King."

"Who are you?" Jason demanded sharply.

"Marcus, son of Narieos," the traitor replied proudly.

"Well, Marcus, son of Narieos, you'll rot in prison until the day you die," Jason retorted, his tone as merciless as cold steel. "And if Iolaus is dead, you'll beg and pray every day for the same fate he suffered." Turning to his soldiers, he commanded, "Put them in chains and take them away. I don't want to ever look upon them again."

"Sire," his subordinate acknowledged and gestured to his men to fulfill the command. Jason turned away from the traitors as if they no longer existed and lit a torch from the campfire. Holding it forth, he moved deeper into the cavern.

And there, in the darkness, he found the miracle that was Pegasus; the creature of myth and legend was chained to a loop of iron secured by a clamp to the rock of the mountain. The intelligent animal pulled away from the light, head up and eyes flashing as one hoof warningly pawed at the ground.

"Easy, beauty," Jason crooned, as he placed the torch in a bracket and then faced Pegasus, his hands open and empty. He shook his head sadly as he saw how the once shining coat had dulled from lack of care, and the animal looked half-starved. "What have they done to you?" he asked softly as he slowly paced closer. "How long have you been in the dark but for the rare ride through the night? When did you last see the sun?"

Pegasus snorted and bobbed his head, calmed by gentleness he'd not known for centuries.

"Come, beauty," Jason murmured, as he reached to stroke the powerful neck and withers. "It's time to return to the light." He unhooked the chain from the winged horse's bridle and then, firmly gripping the leather threaded with gold, he turned and led Pegasus from the living tomb. When they came out into the sunlight, the winged steed tossed back his head and whinnied, a rippling sound of joy, and pranced a little, nudging his head against Jason's shoulder as the mighty wings unfurled and furled. The soldiers gaped in amazement, marveling at myth made real – and at the man who had recovered magic – surely, Jason was destined for wondrous greatness. They dropped to one knee and bowed their heads before him, the loyalty required and commanded now given freely and wholeheartedly. They would follow him to Tartarus, if he asked it of them.

Jason regarded them thoughtfully, then nodded to himself before urging them to be on their way back to Corinth. He'd never have to say a word about what was done in this place; unbidden, they would spread this tale and by the time he returned, he'd be a legend.

"But where are you going, Sire?" one of the men called.

Jason looked toward the west. "I've found one treasure this day, and it's time to secure the others. I'll meet you back at the palace." And then he turned to the magnificent winged horse to scratch Pegasus behind one ear. "What do you say? Are you ready to fly once again for Corinth and Greece?"

The horse snorted and whinnied, and then bent a foreleg to lower himself and make it easier for the Prince to leap upon his back. Jason grinned as he settled into place and took a light hold of the reins. "Fly, Pegasus!" he called out and the wings unfurled, elegant yet strong. Pegasus reared and then raced forward, straight to the rim of the ledge not far from the cave's entrance – and then over and into space, the mighty wings flapping as he bore his Prince into the sky.

Jason felt breathless as he gazed down upon the earth so far below, the terrain speeding past at an unbelievable clip. Never had he done anything so exciting but, as his thoughts returned to the reason for this marvelous journey, he sobered. The day was long from being over and there was much yet to be done.

Pegasus soared with the grace and agility of an eagle, his muscles rippling and his wild mane and tail flowing in the wind. His feathered wings cut through the air with hard, fast strokes but the ride was smooth and stable for the Prince on his back.

"Find the Sceptre!" Jason called, and the great steed wheeled in the sky, soaring in a long arc down and down, until the Prince could make out riders, soldiers wearing his colours, racing along the beach toward Corinth but still days away from their journey's end. Pegasus continued on the downward spiral until, finally, he dropped lightly to the sand and raced toward the soldiers – who had drawn up their own mounts and gaped in awe.

"Archimedes!" Jason cried as he waved – and Archimedes lifted the Sceptre over his head, so that his Prince could see that the prize was secure.

But the Sceptre wasn't the only treasure Jason was seeking. Pulling on the reins as they came up to the small cluster of cavalrymen, the Prince asked, his voice tight with the fear of what the answer might be, "Hercules and Iolaus. Where are they?"

"The Romans were closing on us fast, and are even now no more than two or three hours behind us, my lord," Archimedes explained quickly. "Iolaus was too badly injured to travel quickly, and so Hercules bade us go on without them."

When Jason's gaze flashed with a mixture of painful grief and fury that his friends had been abandoned, the Captain hastened to add, "Hercules said to tell you that…that you and Corinth and Greece are worth it. That neither he nor Iolaus held regret for whatever price might be demanded by the Fates."

Jason turned his face away. "Yeah, well, they might not have regrets, but I've enough for all of us," he retorted. Turning back to Archimedes, he said, "Give me the Sceptre, and look to your own safety. I can see your horses are nearly spent, for the journey has been long and hard. Scatter into the hills so that they will lose your trail. I'll see you back in Corinth when you get there. And," he paused, "thank you, Archimedes, for bringing the Sceptre to me."

The soldier bowed his head, and Jason thrust the Sceptre inside his tunic, securing it under his belt against his skin. And then he flicked the reins as he murmured to his mount, "Find Hercules and Iolaus for me – and please the Fates, we're not too late."

Pegasus launched straight into a gallop and within six paces was again airborne, flying further west.

Hercules found a hollow in the stone wall of the lofty hill, not far from the crest. Pausing, he looked around, assessing the cover it provided; there was a slight overhang that would shelter them from above, and close by, the rock fell away to a steep cliff, so approach from below and one side would be difficult. There were stunted trees and shrubs, sparse perhaps, but enough, maybe, to camouflage their presence from searchers climbing from the beach far below. But, best of all, there was a trickling of water down the rock-face from some small spring above, and it had gathered in a shallow pool before flowing over the cliff. He doubted he'd find a better place to make his stand.

For, much to his dismay, the Romans had realized they'd missed some of their quarry, and at least fifty soldiers had doubled back, searching for where he and the riders had parted company. They were swarming up the hill behind him, no more than half a handspan away.

Gently, the demigod laid his precious burden onto the ground, and wished for better. His friend deserved a soft place to rest, but stone would have to do. With luck, the Romans would miss them and continue up the hill and he could care for Iolaus, bathe him to bring down the fever and change his blood-sodden dressings.

But if they didn't pass by, they'd have to get through him to get to his partner. Taking on fifty armed and skilled legionnaires single-handedly was a stretch, even for him, but it wasn't a battle he could afford to lose. For now, though, he could hold his friend close and hope that Atropos wasn't sharpening her shears; if she planned to cut Iolaus' thread this day, she could damned well cut his, too. For he'd die before he let the Romans take his best friend again.

He gazed down into the pain ravaged face and he felt such sorrow and grief to be so helpless to give respite and comfort. Tenderly, he brushed Iolaus' matted curls from his brow, frowning at the deep gash over one brow that would no doubt leave a scar. His fingertips lightly traced the less swollen cheek and he sighed, profoundly regretting Iolaus' suffering and the torture his friend had endured, and wishing futilely that it could have been his fate instead.

"Herc?" Iolaus whispered, struggling back from the darkness.

"I'm here," the demigod replied as he unhooked the waterskin from his belt and tilted it to Iolaus' dry lips.

But the warrior could only take a sip before his belly rebelled and he weakly waved a hand and tried to turn his head away. Swallowing, resisting the nausea that curled like a snake inside, Iolaus gasped, "Where are we?"

"On a hill, near the top," Hercules replied with a crooked smile.

Iolaus chuffed a breath, not quite a laugh. Blinking, he looked around and then back at his friend. There were shadows in Hercules' eyes that told him all he had to know. "How close are they?"

"Close enough," Hercules replied, looking away briefly. He took a breath and then returned his gaze to Iolaus' searching eyes and he shrugged. There was little to be said about the danger that threatened.

"Go, Herc," Iolaus pleaded then, his voice but a wisp of air. "You…you could get away."

But the demigod shook his head as he again brushed his fingers along the fevered face. "Back to back, remember? Whatever comes, we'll face it together."

"I'm dying anyway, and we both know it," the warrior protested but Hercules snorted, his smile broadening into a grin.

"We're all dying. It's only a matter of when and where and how," he retorted softly. "But, for now, you're alive and I'll do everything in my power to keep you that way. You just hold on and let me worry about the Romans, okay?"

Iolaus held Hercules' steady gaze, and finally, he nodded. Weakly lifting his right hand, he gripped Hercules' arm as tightly as he could. "Back to back," he whispered, the words their code for all they meant to one another. "Give me…give me my knife from my boot," he panted, finding it hard to breathe. "The Romans. They never took it… from me."

Hercules quirked a brow, but he did as he was bid. Once the blade was secure in his fist, Iolaus teased breathily, "If they come too thick and fast, save one or two for me – just, uh, toss 'em my way, okay?"

"You got it, buddy," the demigod replied lightly, doing his best to match the gallantry, though his throat was tight. "But, for now, why don't you rest a bit. Save your strength, for when I need it."

Iolaus could barely nod his head, but his eyelids drooped obediently. "Wake me…when they get here," he mumbled as he faded. "Wouldn't want…to miss the…action."

"I promise," Hercules vowed, as he bent to press his lips against Iolaus' brow. "Be strong for me, Iolaus," he whispered hoarsely then as his friend slipped into sleep. "I need you. Don't you let go."

Pegasus screamed in fury and dove hard and fast toward the earth. At first, Jason couldn't see what had caused his mount to react so violently, but as they drew closer to the ground and swung wide to come in just below the crest of a hill, he stiffened with sharp alarm.

Hercules was battling what looked at first glance to be a hoard of Roman legionnaires. He'd chosen his position well, his might blocking the path behind him, and he'd already done a lot of damage – the Prince could see the ground around him littered with fallen men. Even as Pegasus flew nearer, the young demigod tossed one soldier over his shoulder, to fly past the end of the cliff and fall to oblivion, and grabbed another to swing around like a human club, knocking others away, the force of the blows sending the men flying back into the trees or into the hard face of the hill.

But Jason could also see that Hercules was far from unscathed. One arm and his chest were smeared and splattered by blood and there was a livid gash on his cheek. As the Son of Zeus spun in a tight circle, wielding the hapless Roman with brutal precision, one soldier ducked and dove under the attack, rolling close against the rock face behind Hercules' back. Jason screamed out a warning to his friend, furious to still be too far away to help – but in the chaos of battle, it was only too clear that Hercules didn't hear him.

But, oddly, the soldier didn't rise, didn't launch an attack from behind. But there was no time to look closer to see what had happened to him, if he'd smashed his head into the stone, for they were approaching the battleground with blazing speed. Jason drew his sword and leapt from Pegasus' back into the melee, and then pulled his Sceptre from his belt, so that he was fighting with two weapons, smashing and slashing into the enemy. Pegasus rose back into the air, and hovered, wings flapping furiously, while sharp hooves kicked out powerfully at one adversary after another.

Though they were still vastly outnumbered, Jason's spectacular arrival on the winged steed drove the Romans into stunned confusion and absolute disarray. The legionnaires floundered under the concerted attack, no match for the furious energy and honed skills of two of Cheiron's best, or the flashing hooves and teeth of a steed that they could scarcely believe they were seeing. In moments, what had seemed a sure victory turned into a rout, as one Roman broke and ran, and then another, until all who still stood where scrambling for their lives. Pegasus swooped after them, harrying them along until they finally made the shelter of the thick growing forest.

It was over so suddenly that Hercules felt disoriented and he sagged against the stony face of the hill, sweating and panting for breath. He'd been afraid, in those moments before Jason dropped in from out of nowhere, that all his strength and skill would not be enough and that he'd fail to be an impenetrable wall between them and Iolaus. Jason put away his weapons and hastened to his side, anxious to see how badly Hercules had been wounded, but the demigod smiled shakily. "I'm okay," he rasped. "Just superficial cuts. Your timing was impeccable."

"Gods, Hercules," Jason sighed in relief as he gripped his friend's shoulder and looked at the runnels of blood from too many gashes and cuts to count. But the demigod's eyes were clear and it seemed he really was all right. Wordlessly, the Prince pulled Hercules into a tight embrace – it had been too close. Another few minutes…

"Iolaus?" the Prince asked then, fearfully. "Where is he?"

Hercules straightened as Jason stood back, saying as he turned, "He's over – "

But he faltered when he saw the Roman soldier sprawled over his friend's body. "IOLAUS!" he cried. Lunging forward to haul the limp soldier off the warrior, he saw that Iolaus' knife was buried in the man's chest. Dropping to one knee, Hercules frantically checked for any new wounds, and felt for a pulse at the base of Iolaus' throat, heaving a shaky breath only when he found it.

"By the gods," Jason whispered, horrified by how badly Iolaus was injured.

"He's burning up," Hercules grated, casting a haunted look up at the Prince. "The fever's killing him, let alone the other injuries."

Jason swallowed and his lips thinned; he shook his head mutely with despair as he looked around at the miles of forest and hills that surrounded them, at a loss as to what to do or say. But then his gaze lighted on Pegasus and he straightened as he whistled piercingly and then waved the winged steed back; seconds later, the magnificent creature landed on the ledge next to him. Turning back to Hercules, he snapped, anxious concern making him stern, "Bring him."

Hercules gathered Iolaus into his arms and moved swiftly toward Pegasus. Jason helped steady the limp warrior as Hercules mounted and then Jason climbed up behind them, to hold Hercules secure while the demigod clasped Iolaus close. "To the mountains," Jason called to the winged creature, and they were soon soaring over the rounded hills toward the tall peaks in the southeast. "We need to bring the fever down, and our best bet is snow," he explained to Hercules. "Once the fire is muted, we'll get him back to Corinth, to my healer."

Hercules nodded as he stared down into Iolaus' ravaged visage and he shuddered with mingled hope and dread. Shaking his head, he blinked back tears, nearly overcome with the knowledge that, as badly hurt as he was, Iolaus had still found the strength within his sorely abused and battered body to guard his back.

"Back to back," he whispered brokenly into the wind. Hercules drew his friend closer still, wrapping his strong arms around the warrior to brace Iolaus' head on his shoulder, holding his best friend tightly so that Celesta would know that she couldn't have his sword brother, not without taking him, too. "Back to back."

Jason wrapped his arms around the both of them, holding them securely on swiftly flying steed. He leaned his brow against Hercules' broad shoulder, and wished he believed in the mercy of the gods…for he badly wanted to pray for Iolaus' life.

The day was waning, the sky above bathed in gold and scarlet that splashed onto the peak of the mountain, when they slipped quickly from Pegasus, and hastily stripped off Iolaus' boots and pants. And then they laid him in the icy snow. It was a risk, for the shock of the cruel cold could kill him, but his breathing had grown so shallow, his skin so blisteringly hot, that they had to dampen the fire of the fever.

Iolaus flinched at the cold that suddenly surrounded him, and he moaned in misery as he struggled to understand what was happening.

"Shh, easy, buddy," Hercules soothed even as he smeared snow over Iolaus's torso and arms, while Jason covered his legs. "We've got to cool you off. Won't take long."

The warrior lifted a protesting hand, a weak, feeble gesture, and he shuddered. "C-cold," he muttered, only semiconscious and confused.

They left him buried in snow for only a few minutes, and they dared not risk more, before hastily digging him back out and drying him with his vest. Then they both removed their vests and shirts to wrap around his now shivering frame; meager warmth, but all they had. They clambered back onto Pegasus, and the steed bore them into the air, flying swiftly now to Corinth. But the fever was lessened so they dared hope that, perhaps, their desperate gesture had worked and not done more harm than good.

It was full dark when they dropped out of the sky onto the palace roof. Jason lingered only long enough to loop the reins over an iron spike in the wall, a flimsy tether and one that wouldn't hold if the winged steed chose to fly away. "Please, stay," he murmured as he touched Pegasus' face, and the horse snickered softly. "But if you go, know that I'll be forever grateful for your help today. I would have lost what is most precious to me, if not for you."

And then he was racing across the rooftop to get ahead of Hercules and bellow for his healer to meet them in his private chambers, for servants, to bring bandages and blankets, warm water, soup, bread, cheese and wine, and for his steward, to care for the amazing creature on the rooftop as well as to post a guard to keep the curious away from Pegasus.

Candles flickered in wall sconces, upon wrought iron stands and tables, softly illuminating the Prince's opulent bed chamber, burnishing wood, leather, and silken tapestries, and casting shifting shadows into the corners. The ancient Crown and Sceptre sat upon a long table against one wall. At Jason's insistence, Hercules had washed the blood and sweat from his body and was just turning away from the silver wash basin, a towel in his hands, as Patrocles, Jason's healer, finished his meticulous examination of Iolaus' injuries and wounds. The healer straightened as he pulled the silk coverlet filled with down up over the warrior's shoulders, having earlier positioned the unconscious and fevered man on his right side while redressing the raw skin, to take pressure off his back and left arm.

"What are his chances?" Jason asked quietly.

Patrocles gave an unconscious, uncertain shrug as he turned to face the Prince and the demigod. Scratching his cheek with thin, elegant fingers, the healer murmured into the tense silence, "You don't need me to tell you how seriously ill he is. It's not the wounds, as ugly as they are. With the exception of the mess they made of his back, most are superficial and, individually, not life-threatening. Though he's badly bruised, I don't detect any broken bones." Looking back down at his patient, listening to the rasping breaths, he went on, "It's the infection that the danger here, the fever and his state of exhaustion." Sighing as he gazed at Hercules and then at Jason, he added guardedly, "Your swift action to bring down his fever no doubt saved his life, at least for now – but I'm afraid the resulting chill might lead to pneumonia."

Shaking his head, he crossed his arms. "I saw evidence of a recently healed wound in his back," he observed. "It looked like something serious."

"It was," Hercules replied bleakly. "He took a lance – nearly died."

"I see," the healer nodded. "And the current damage was done over a period of days, yes? And he's been without care for more days while you fled the Romans?"

Hercules nodded as he watched the physician closely, not liking the man's air of hesitation as he led them toward his conclusions. "What are you saying?" he demanded flatly, the coldness of his voice belied by the dark anxiety in his eyes.

Sighing, Patrocles replied, compassion in his tone, "I'm saying a body can only endure so much abuse before its strength is exhausted. I'd guess he was barely recovered and not yet at full strength when he was taken by the Romans. Prolonged pain and deprivation, blood loss and abuse take a grim toll on a man's resilience – the shock of the whipping alone would have killed a less fit and determined man. In truth, I don't know if he has the energy or strength left to fight off the debilitating effects of the fever and infection, or to survive a bout of pneumonia."

Jason lifted a hand to cover his eyes as he slumped against the wall, while Hercules gaped at the healer, before turning away to swallow hard. Slowly, the demigod approached the bed and laid a hand on Iolaus' head, a gesture of protection and comfort, and of benediction. Gazing down at his best friend, the demigod asked hoarsely, "What does he need from us? What can we do to help him?"

"I'll have servants sent to bathe him regularly, to fight the fever, and to try to get some nourishment into him, to build his strength," Patrocles replied evenly. "Garlic and chicken broth will help fight the infection. Willow bark tea will ease his pain and fever. We'll burn eucalyptus in the brazier to help clear his congestion."

"I'll care for him," Hercules said firmly. "He'd do no less for me."

"We'll both care for him," Jason asserted, his voice tight with grief. "Just send up the supplies we need and a constant flow of cool water."

"Sire, it's not for a Prince to tend the wounds of a warrior," the healer chastened gently. "You have other duties."

But Jason lifted his cool, steady gaze to the older man's as he replied, his voice laden with emotion, "Perhaps I do, but none are as important right now as caring for my friend."

"But the Romans – " Patrocles tried again.

"Have lost this round," Jason interjected firmly. "Mummius is no fool. Once the Scepter was back in my possession, it was over. If he attacked now, he'd begin a war the Empire isn't ready for. And the Spartans? For all their rattling of spears, they won't attack us without Athens' backing, and Athens isn't prepared for war. It's done, Patrocles, for now. Please do as I wish."

"As you wish, my lord," the healer demurred as he bowed his head and then turned to the door. But, before leaving, he added in a tone that brooked no contention, even from his Prince, "However, you are both, also, on the verge of exhaustion. I expect you to have the sense to rest when the other is with Iolaus. I don't need the distraction of other patients while I'm doing what is needed to prepare medicines for him."

Jason crooked a tired grin, reminiscent of the boy and youth who this healer had seen through broken bones and childhood maladies. "I hear you, Patrocles," he replied fondly. "We won't be foolish."

The healer's thin lips relaxed into a slight smile as he bowed his head again, and then took his leave. When the door closed, leaving them alone, Jason moved to stand beside Hercules, to grip his shoulder firmly.

"I'll take the first shift," he said, and when Hercules turned to protest, continued quickly, "No arguments! You've spent the last few days running flat out nearly to Patras, carrying Iolaus halfway back across Greece, and fighting Roman legionnaires. You've suffered your own wounds and probably haven't slept for nearly a week. Go, lie down on the cot in the next room. You know I'll call you if…if you're needed or if he wakes."

Reluctantly, Hercules nodded. Now that the action was over and they were safe from further threat, he felt the weariness of muscle and the ache of bone. Even his strength and endurance could be stretched only so far, and their fight for Iolaus' life would require sustained focus and energy. "Alright, thanks," he agreed quietly, slapping Jason on the back as he passed. With a final look over his shoulder toward Iolaus, he slipped into the adjoining chamber and wearily sank down on one of the two narrow but comfortable beds Jason had earlier directed be prepared, in anticipation of their need. Though he stared up at the ceiling and doubted he'd be able to sleep, Morphias soon stole in undetected and drew him into the darkness.

Jason spent the rest of the night hovering over Iolaus. When the fresh pitchers of water arrived, he tried to help the unconscious man drink, if only a few drops. And he bathed his friend's fevered body at regular intervals, to cool the overheated skin. The hours were long and silent but for the warrior's shallow, rasping breaths and the soft snuffles of sleep from the next room. The candles burned down and he lit new ones. From time to time, the Prince stretched to ease stiff and tired muscles and he'd pace to the embrasure to stare into the night.

It was hard for him to bear witness to the wounds earned on his behalf. Very hard. This would be his life, sending others off on missions to further his goals, and losing them, or watching them either suffer and die, or suffer and struggle back to health. And the ones he sent wouldn't be strangers, but those he knew he respected and trusted to do what needed to be done. His tender and compassionate heart rebelled, hurt deeply by Iolaus' sacrifice and suffering, and the imaginings of other similar situations in the future, but his head told him he had no choice. As Hercules had said days before, it was his destiny. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wondered how he'd ever be able to endure the responsibilities and the power; wondered if they would corrode his soul and change him into someone he couldn't imagine being. Time and again, he turned his troubled gaze upon the Crown and the Sceptre, the tangible tokens of his destiny, and he wished he could feel more joy in his inheritance. But then, he'd turn back to Iolaus and wish his fate could have been different, for he'd far rather be in that bed himself than know a man he treasured and considered priceless and irreplaceable, had been so sorely vilified and tormented in his name.

The fact that Iolaus didn't improve as the night wore on, but seemed ever weaker, lashed Jason's soul and filled him with profound grief. When the dawn came, he was white with exhaustion, and nearly trembling under the burden of his sorrows and regrets. Just before Hercules woke to take his turn by Iolaus' side, the Prince realized there was here was something he had to do before retiring to the narrow cot in the next chamber. Going to his desk in the corner, he reached for a fresh piece of parchment, dipped a quill pen into the watered ink pad and, pausing a moment to order his thoughts given that there were Romans in the area who might intercept the message and seek to use it for their own ends, wrote,

'My Lady, I hope you will forgive my impertinence in sending an escort to bring you forthwith to the palace, but I hope you will be my guest until after the Coronation. There are two young wanderers here whom I know you will wish to see, and who would dearly love to see you – as would I. We've been through a difficult time, and I regret to tell you that one you consider a son has been gravely injured. So, please, my dear Lady, I urge you to come. We all have need of your comfort and strength. Your servant, Jason, Prince of Corinth.'

He dusted the fresh ink with sand to dry it, before rolling and sealing the scroll with his mark, a stamp hot from being held in the candle's flame and dripping with crimson wax. Then he went to the door and called softly to the servant posted outside in the hallway, ever ready to do his bidding. He handed over the sealed scroll and gave instructions for its delivery and for a room to be made up near his own, for Alcmene, mother of Hercules.

"How is he?" Hercules asked anxiously as he emerged from the adjoining chamber.

"No better," Jason replied regretfully. Shoving fingers through his hair, so that it stood up in short spikes, he shrugged and murmured, "His fever's no worse, though, so perhaps that's good news."

The demigod nodded as he moved to stand by Jason, lifting a hand to the older man's shoulder, as they both gazed down at Iolaus. "You need your own rest, now, Jase," Hercules counseled. "I doubt whether you've slept any more than I have in the past week."

Wanly, the Prince nodded. "You're right about that," he sighed. Turning away, he went to the table and poured himself a goblet of watered wine, and then trudged to the doorway. Pausing there, he said wearily, "There's a servant outside in the hall. Ask for anything you need or want and…and call me…if…"

"You know I will," Hercules assured him warmly.

And then the Son of Zeus began his first day's vigil, tending to his friend with infinite care. But it didn't seem to help. Iolaus was getting worse, his breathing increasingly congested until he had a harsh hacking cough that woke him to the pain he was enduring and the discomfort of the fever.

"Gods, Herc," he muttered, restless and heartily sick of feeling weak and helpless, "I hate this."

"I know, buddy," Hercules replied compassionately. "Here, maybe this will help you breathe and be more comfortable; take the pressure off your back." Gently, one hand behind Iolaus' neck, he lifted his friend's upper body until the warrior was leaning slightly forward against the support of his broad chest. After a moment, he asked, "How's that?"

"C'n breathe better," Iolaus murmured sleepily. "Thanks."

"I live to serve," the demigod teased softly, hiding his worry, as his fingers wove through his friend's curls, a relaxing, soothing, caress.

The warrior snorted and managed a small grin before he settled back into sleep.

When Alcmene bustled in late in the evening, already anxious because of the cryptic information in Jason's note, she was dismayed to find two of her men slumped in despair – her son covered with scrapes and bruises – and the third barely clinging to life.

"Mother! You're here!" Hercules called in surprise when she came through the door.

"Where else would I be when my boys need me?" she asked a trifle astringently to hide her churning emotions, as she drew off her shawl.

Rising to meet her, Hercules drew her into a tight hug; he was still young enough that her simple presence reassured him and gave him hope that maybe things would be okay after all. "It's good to see you," he murmured.

She hugged him just as tightly, and patted his back, but soon pulled away to turn to Jason and draw him into her solid embrace. "Thank you for sending for me," she whispered, her voice trembling a little. "For knowing I'd want to be here."

"I'm glad you're here," the Prince replied fervently. "Iolaus…we're afraid…"

"Iolaus will be fine," she retorted, though she had to force the confidence into her voice. Standing back, she continued determinedly, "He knows we love him and need him. He will not abandon us."

"He's been badly hurt and is really sick, Mom," her son replied, his voice low and laced with anxious fear.

"I can see that, Hercules," she replied gently as she studied them. "And I can also see that the two of you are very nearly dead on your feet. Off to bed, the both of you! I don't want to see either one of you again before morning."

"But – " Jason began, only to be overruled.

"No 'buts', young man," she interrupted with mock severity. But then she smiled as she assured them, "I'll watch over him tonight. Don't worry; I'll take very good care of him. And, tomorrow, I want to know what's been going on around here! Unfortunately, you're both too tired to make any sense tonight."

They looked at one another bemusedly and couldn't help chuckling at being treated like little boys again. It was amusing, but also very reassuring and comforting. For a little while at least, they could pretend to be children and do as she bid them, trusting her to make things right in their world.

"Alright, Mother, you win," Hercules acquiesced with a smile as he bent to kiss her cheek. "We'll just be next door, if you need us."

When they'd disappeared into the other room, she closed the door between the chambers and then she moved to the bed, where she took one of Iolaus' hands between both of hers. He looked so terribly fragile and vulnerable, so utterly lacking in his usual glowing vitality. "Oh, child," she husked, tears glazing her eyes now that she didn't have to be the comforting, strong mother, "what have they done to you?"

But she sniffed and straightened her shoulders as she went on, "You won't make a liar out of me, will you? You will be all right, Iolaus? Won't you?"

She didn't get any response, but then, she hadn't really expected one. Letting go of his hand, she caressed his cheek and then began to take stock of his injuries – and was both sickened and angered by what she saw. "Sadistic brutes, whoever they were," she muttered furiously as she tenderly bathed him, cleaned his wounds and rebound them. Casting a frustrated look upward, she shook her head as she complained, "Zeus, you could bestir yourself to take better care of these boys. But I suppose that's contrary to your wretched rules."

Finished with her immediate tasks, she went to the door and asked the servant to bring her a large pot of water, and a brazier to heat it over. When it arrived, with the maid's help, she turned Iolaus on his side at the edge of the bed. Then she positioned the pan of water and brazier on the floor directly below him. When the water started to bubble, she crumpled in some dry eucalyptus and then rigged a tent of sorts, so that the steam would gather and help clear his congestion.

And then she sat beside him and held his hand, so that he might know that he wasn't alone.

The next morning, Patrocles confirmed what they already knew. Pneumonia had taken hold.

It was a grave illness, one that killed old and young alike. In Iolaus' sorely weakened condition, they all feared it could be fatal. But none acknowledged that fear out loud. Hercules sent his mother to her room, mimicking her behaviour of the evening before to make her smile. When she protested that she still didn't know what had happened or why, Jason vowed to explain it all personally when she woke, and teased, "Unfortunately, you're far too tired to make any sense of it now."

She gave them both sharp looks of feigned umbrage, but then she smiled as she kissed them, and then Iolaus, before retiring.

And so it went for the next three days as they took turns fighting the fever and forcing liquid nourishment into Iolaus, dribbling broth, water or herbal tea into his mouth whenever he was the least bit conscious, and often, even when he was not. Patrocles prepared and applied mustard plasters to his chest, to break up the congestion and drive out the infection. But the fever persisted discouragingly, and the hacking, harsh cough grew worse, though the wounds on his body began to show signs of healing as those infections abated. But on the fourth night after Alcmene's arrival, Hercules refused to be banned from his friend's side. Iolaus' breathing had grown dangerously shallow and uneven, and it had been more than twelve hours since he'd been at all lucid. The warrior had been muttering incoherently and sometimes thrashing weakly, increasingly restless, but as the evening wore on, he'd grown alarmingly still but for his ragged, strained respirations.

Hercules had moved up onto the bed earlier in the day, to sit against the headboard, Iolaus propped against his chest, to help his friend battle the congestion that was making breathing increasingly difficult. He could feel the terrible fever, and the toll it was taking was painfully visible. Iolaus' skin was drawn tight over bone, dry and papery to the touch. He'd lost weight and he lay limply, like a rag doll. The coughs, when they came, were increasingly weak, and even the ragged, noisy breathing quieted as he was able to only draw shallow puffs of air.

"I'm not leaving," the demigod said truculently. For the third time.

"Neither am I, Alcmene," Jason added, though more gently. "Not tonight."

Relenting, honestly unable to work up the fiction that she believed Iolaus would make it through to the new dawn, she nodded sorrowfully. Of course they'd want to be there if…if the inconceivable happened.

The candles burned low, as did the fire in the grate, so that shadows lengthened and darkened the room. It was easier somehow, to not have to see what was happening. Jason and Alcmene slumped in chairs beside one another, and she reached to take his hand. Hercules wrapped his arms protectively around his best friend, and bent his head to rest his cheek on Iolaus' curls. When the other two dozed off, he whispered brokenly, "Don't go, Iolaus. Please, don't…"

There were terrible moments when Iolaus' breath caught in his throat and Hercules stiffened again and again, until, with a rattle, the warrior began to breathe again. Tears filled the demigod's eyes, and trembled unnoticed onto his pale cheeks to drip into Iolaus' hair. The hours trickled by, the minutes agonizingly long and yet Hercules feared they were passing too quickly and that Iolaus would soon slip away from him.

It was nearing dawn when Iolaus' fever flared dangerously high, and Hercules reached to wet a cloth in the basin on the table by the bed, and then stroked the cool, damp rag over his friend's face and neck, arms and chest. "Be strong," he murmured, aching with fear. "Be strong for me, Iolaus," he begged.

Pale streaks of gold were just beginning to light the eastern sky, casting a warm glow into the chamber, when the fever finally broke. Sweat poured from Iolaus, drenching him, Hercules and the bed. Overcome by relief, the demigod drew a quavering breath, his lips trembling as he pressed his eyes closed and hugged Iolaus to him. Turning his face to lightly kiss his best friend's brow, he whispered brokenly, "Thank you. Oh, Gods, Iolaus. Thank you for not leaving me."

It was a week before Iolaus was strong enough to leave his bed, even if only to sit on a chair. Another two days before Patrocles gave him leave to go outside and sit in the garden in the sunshine. But, as that week drew on, his sickly pallor gave way to healthier tones, and his energy and vitality returned to sparkle in his eyes. And, most telling of all, his appetite came back with a vengeance, to the amused delight and relief of those who loved him. He was recovering and would be fully well again, soon.

On Solstice Eve, after a succulent meal in the formal dining room, they retired to Jason's sitting room, gathering around the fire contentedly, with pewter goblets of wine in their hands.

"So, big day tomorrow," Iolaus reflected with a grin. Merrily, he lifted his goblet in a toast, "To the man who will be King!"

Hercules and Alceme happily echoed his words and gesture, but Iolaus' grin faltered, and his eyes narrowed as he studied Jason, who had shifted uncomfortably at the salute, his expression of contentment darkening into sober reflection. "What is it, Jase?" the warrior asked, his voice laden with concern. "What's wrong?"

Jason turned his face away to hide the sudden, unbidden and expected moisture that burned his eyes, and he shook his head. "How can you, of all people, ask me that?" he murmured hoarsely, past the massive lump of guilt and dread in his throat. "After what you suffered!"

Startled, Iolaus exchanged a look with Hercules, but his friend seemed equally mystified by the odd words. "I don't understand," Iolaus fumbled, with a frown of confusion. "What are you talking about?"

The Prince swiped at his eyes and swallowed hard before he turned to answer, leaning forward in his chair as he flung his arm out toward Iolaus, and then Hercules, as he said, "You damned near died to ensure I could wear that damned Crown! And so did you, Hercules! How many more times in the future will I need to send my friends, the ones I treasure most, into peril on my behalf? How many times will my friends go, until the one time comes that they never return?" His voice caught and he shook his head helplessly. "Iolaus…Iolaus, I almost lost you because I am the man who will be King."

"Ah, Jase," the warrior sighed, sadness blooming in his eyes. "Hey – what happened? – none of it was your fault. You were betrayed and your enemies sought to destroy you. Of course, I did what I could to help. It wasn't because you're gonna be King, though I think that's a really good thing, you know? You're going to be a great King! And, hey, it worked out. Herc came for me and got me out of there."

"And you came for both of us," Hercules added soberly. "You didn't have to do that, Jason. In fact, you probably shouldn't have risked coming after us, but you did, and you saved our lives."

"You don't get it," the Prince muttered despondently. "You don't understand."

"Oh, I think they do," Alcmene observed, her voice quiet and gentle. "Jason, I think, maybe, you don't 'get it'. Certainly, it was important to retrieve the Sceptre, for we need you as our King. But that's not why these men did what they did, took the risks they did. They did it for you, because you're so very important to them; not because you're the future King, but because you're their friend. Just as you threw all caution to the wind because they are your best friends in their turn. I know," she began, and then faltered. "No, perhaps none of us can know the burdens you bear, how difficult the choices and how lonely that sometimes must feel. But you must know that you aren't alone. Your people love you, because they trust you. You're a fine, decent man, and you take good care of them. And your men love you, because you're a fine leader." Looking from Iolaus to her son, and then back to Jason, she added simply, "We love you for person you are. King or not, whenever you have need, you have to know we will always be there to support you."

Jason sniffed as he rubbed a hand over his nose and mouth. "Thank you. All of you. A man couldn't have better friends than you."

"Works both ways, Jase," Iolaus said with a grin. Leaning back in his chair, he added with a cocky drawl, "They say you can tell a lot about a man by the friends who stand by him." Looking from Jason to Hercules, and then winking at Alcmene, he added cheekily, "A Prince soon to be King, a demigod son of Zeus. Not bad for a simple peasant boy, huh?"

Jason couldn't help snickering as he tossed a pillow at the younger man. "You forgot 'former thief'," he teased.

Laughing, Iolaus caught the cushion and threw it back, "Maybe so, but stand by me you did. And stand watch over me, you did. And care for me, you did. Gotta say, I feel pretty good about that. And I'm grateful."

"Well," Jason allowed with a diffident shrug, "I guess that's what friends are for."

"Sometimes," Hercules allowed with a smile, as he sipped at his goblet. "But sometimes, they're for having fun with, kicking back with and just enjoying the moment with. Like now, for instance."

"Yeah, and going hunting with, and fishing with, and attending incredible, magnificent banquets with, like we'll do tomorrow!" Iolaus added enthusiastically, once again making Jason laugh.

"Tonight is the longest night of the year," Alcmene mused, her gaze upon the future King soft with understanding, "but tomorrow brings a new dawn and hope for the future. It brings renewal and rebirth. I, for one, am very glad that you are our future, Jason."

"Here! Here!" Iolaus cheered as he again raised his goblet in salute.

And this time, Jason smiled easily, warmed by their presence, their confidence, their understanding, and their love.

The next day, flags were hoisted on all the parapets, and the music of flutes and drums filled the streets, as the people joyously celebrated the Coronation Day. Garbed in his formal crimson and gold velvet robes, his Crown upon his head and his Sceptre in his hands, Jason would lead the official procession of his Councilors through the town, and he insisted that Hercules march with him; he would have wanted Iolaus, too, but he was equally insistent that the still recovering warrior be taken by chariot to the City Square to wait for their triumphant entry.

"No, Iolaus," he'd said sternly for the second or third time, as they readied for the parade, "you will not overdo it! I command you to rest and be sensible!"

"Like there's hope of that," Hercules laughed as he ruffled his friend's hair.

"Peasant. It's because I'm a peasant, isn't it?" Iolaus teased, feigning umbrage. But then he snickered as he sketched a salute, "I am yours to command, oh worthy King." And then he bowed deeply, and repeatedly, until Jason burst out laughing, while Alcmene shook her head at their antics.

An hour later, Jason was striding through streets thick with cheering crowds, and he was touched by the very evident happiness his coronation brought to his people. And he vowed, in his heart and soul, to do the best he could for them, always.

When they finally entered the square, he mounted the wooden platform that had been raised the evening before and looked over the gathered assembly that packed the open area and spilled into the side streets. Around the square, his subjects hung out of windows and waved from the rooftops, and he felt the Crown settle more comfortably on his head. Lifting his hands to quell the riotous cheering, he waited until there was silence, and then he called out, "I am Jason, King of Corinth, and you are my people! I vow to you, to serve you honourably, with integrity and compassion in equal measure, and I vow, as well, to protect you in times of trouble." Wryly he added, "I hope you'll always cheer so enthusiastically over the fact that I am your King."

The crowd laughed and roared with approval, and he had to once again lift his hands. "But no one ever governs alone. My Advisors," he indicated with a wave, "offer me good counsel and I thank them for sharing their wisdom. My soldiers," he waved to the Royal Guards that surrounded the square, "see to our collective security, and I thank them, for their loyalty and courage." Once again the crowd cheered wildly, and once again he urged them to silence for he was not yet done.

"But I would not be standing here today, and Corinth would be facing much peril, if not for two extraordinary men who risked their all to safeguard our future. I thank them for their friendship, for truly, I would be lost without them. Hercules, son of Alcmene," he said, waving toward the demigod, and the crowd went wild. Jason waited them out, wanting them all to hear the end of his formal remarks, and when the exalted cries died away, he went on, waving toward the warrior, "and Iolaus of Thebes, I ask you now to come up here and stand beside me."

Surprised and disconcerted, the two younger men climbed up upon the stage and stood diffidently beside the new King. Jason gazed at them fondly for a moment, and then from inside his robe, he pulled golden chains with medals he'd had forged with their likenesses on one side and his on the other, and he placed them around their necks as he said, his voice ringing across the square, "You are heroes of Corinth. And you are the only men I will ever bow before." And with that, the King of Corinth dropped to one knee and bowed his head…and his people followed his lead, dropping to their knees to bow to the heroes in their midst. Alcmene, nearly bursting with pride, wiped tears from her cheeks as a bright smile lit her face.

"Ah, Jase," Iolaus muttered, shifting uncomfortably, "that's real nice and all, and thanks, but would you just get up already? You don't ever have to bow to us, and you know it."

Smiling, the King stood and replied, "Just as the two of you never have to bow to me."

Hercules just shook his head, and rolled his eyes, but the glowing sparkle in his gaze showed how much he understood and deeply appreciated the message in those words. Jason would never command them – they were his friends, pure and simple, and always would be.

Jason turned to end the ceremony but, just then, Pegasus swept down from the heights and landed before the stage, and the people gasped in awe. They'd heard the stories, of course, of how the King had found the immortal, winged steed and freed it; and of how he'd ridden Pegasus to save Hercules and Iolaus from the Romans, just as they had saved his throne by winning back the Sceptre – but they'd never seen such an incredible, miraculous creature.

And then they trembled with reverence when Athena appeared in their midst, luminescence glowing from and around her. "You've done well, King Jason," she called out austerely, though there was a sparkle of humour in her eyes. "You have recovered your most priceless treasures," she added with a meaningful glance toward Pegasus and the Sceptre, but then her gaze shifted to include her half-brother and his partner. "Corinth is fortunate in her new King – and will remain fortunate for all the days of your rule. For, this day, a new era dawns and you are the rising sun."

"Athena," Jason acknowledged with appropriate sobriety and ceremony, "I am grateful to bear the gifts you gave Bellerophon so long ago, and thankful for your benediction on my coronation. But…I believe Pegasus should belong only to you and so I return him to you. He earned his freedom from mortal domination when he helped me retrieve and safeguard what are truly my most precious and irreplaceable treasures." Lest anyone doubt his meaning, he added as he cut a swift glance at the men by his side, "And as for commending me for having recovered them, well, as I said to them last evening, that's what friends are for."

"A man's measure is told by the friends he chooses, Jason," she replied dryly. "And you have chosen yours well." Then, more grateful than she could reveal to a mere mortal for the return of Pegasus, she prophesied quietly, her words more for the man than King, "Be at peace; let not your doubts weigh heavily upon you on this day. For though there will be dark times, as there always are, in the end, you will know you've done well, you will have your friends beside you, and you will one day wed the true love of your life. Rejoice, Jason, for the Fates love you and Fortune will never abandon you for long."

And then she vanished as suddenly as she had appeared, leaving Jason blinking in astonishment, while Hercules and Iolaus gazed at him bemusedly. Pegasus whinnied sharply and reared, before dropping his right foreleg to bow to the new King – and then the magical horse leapt into the air, mighty wings flapping in the wind as he flew away…

But Jason scarcely noticed for he was looking at Alcmene, and wondering at Athena's words. Then he smiled broadly, his heart indeed lightened, and he moved to loop his arms around the shoulders of his two best friends before he lifted his gaze to look around at his people. "Today is a new beginning," he called out joyously, "for all of us! Happy Solstice…to one and all!"

Finis

Notes:

Tragically, there really was a cruel Roman general named Lucius Mummius Achaicus, who invaded Corinth, leveled the city, murdered all the men and sold all the women and children into slavery. Corinth ceased to exist for a hundred years, until it was rebuilt by Julius Caesar.

In the actual myth, Hipponous did kill Belleros, and did take the name Bellerophon; and his dream of Athena and her charge to find Pegasus is authentic, as is the account of where he found the mythical steed, and the immortal, winged horse did disappear after he died, never to be seen again. However, the bits about being given the Crown, Sceptre and Corinth to rule by Athena, and the story of his friendship with Belleros, are plot contrivances only and have no basis in the legendary tale.

Suzanne and I wish all of you a joyous holiday season!