Rounding the cluttered display table, Iolaus perused the pattering of wooden and cloth merchandise. There were miniature horses and carts, puzzles and balls. Yet he made sure to always keep the younger boy with him in the periphery of his vision.
Alcmene didn’t usually allow Hercules to roam on his own when they visited the marketplace. It wasn’t that he was a particularly difficult or mischievous child, but even Iolaus had to admit that trouble often had a way of finding his friend. Still, she had given them special permission to visit this shop today, saying, “When he’s with you, Iolaus, I know he’ll be safe.”
It always made Iolaus feel proud and big when she praised him like that.
Hercules made his way haltingly around the shop before a display of stuffed toys caught his attention. Hesitantly, the little boy rubbed his fingers over the soft faces until one in particular, a colorless, faded rag doll, came under his hand. Drawing it from its companions, he cradled the creature, sheltering it close to his chest.
"S'okay," he cooed to it soothingly, like Alcmene often did after a nightmare. But he squeezed it like Iolaus held him when he was upset, tight but gentle. He asked, "Are you lonely? That's okay, because I'm here now."
Iolaus grinned, just a little, as he turned away. It was so like Hercules, really. Sweet.
His own interest was drawn by the short, carefully sanded wooden swords. They made him itch to hold one, but though he longed to reach out and smooth one of the handles, he knew better than to touch anything. Hercules and the other children could play with the toys because there was always the possibility that someone might buy one for them – parents or siblings or grandparents. But Jakob the toy-maker knew Iolaus, and he'd make a fuss if he thought the boy was messing with his products. And so, wistfully, he observed the play weapon, nose close but fingers carefully twisted around his back, in plain sight.
It was a huddle of close, mean laughter that eventually recalled his attention. He recognized the rowdy town boys, and turned, irritated, to shush them before they all got run out. But instead of teasing and pushing one another, they had circled around the table with the dolls, and stood poking fun at the toddler in their midst.
"You like the dolly?" one chortled. Another chorused, "Baby!"
Herc had gone white under chestnut bangs and stood with the little rag figure underneath his chin, held tighter than before. "I like it," he protested feebly. His arms restricted so tautly that it was fortunate the puppet he had selected was full of straw. "I like it."
"That's because you're a little girl, aren't you, brat?" The eldest – a pudgy, thatch-haired butcher’s son named Gregeus – leered. It was an ugly, out of place expression on so young a face. "A little girl. Do you play house too?"
He made a grab for the doll, which caused Hercules to take a stumbling step backwards into the roughly hewn display table. It creaked its protest under the weight pressed against it, tottering. The smaller boy made a hurt sound as his elbow rammed against the rough wood, and Iolaus felt his ire rise, his teeth gritting. He could never stand to see Hercules cry, and right now he looked dangerously close.
And they’d hurt him, damn them.
Without hesitation, he elbowed his way into the group of boys, taking care to catch Gregeus in the gut so that his breath came out in an audible wheeze. He squared his feet and glared at them all, barely noticing how much more obvious it was that his top of his curly head barely tickled the chin of all but the very youngest boys. The fierceness of his expression made up the difference. He backed up until he could feel Hercules breath warm against the back of his neck, and felt another little thrill of fury when he could feel the child shivering.
He growled low, "Leave him along. He can play with whatever he wants."
This only made the group of bullies close the gaps between them, barring any reasonable hope for escape. Iolaus closed his fists until he could feel the crescents of his nails bite, anticipating the degeneration of this confrontation.
By then, Gregeus had recovered himself, breathing just a little hard and keeping his hand protectively over his belly. His face twisted with anger for a moment, before the tableau before him reached though his thick head. Then his ugly grimace turned into a glinting eye and toothy sneer. Slyly, he asked, "You attached to the little girl, Iolaus? Surely daddy doesn't approve. Though, I suppose that isn't anything new."
"Iolaus is my best friend!" Hercules protested, and Iolaus resisted the urge to hush him. The young hunter was still coaching him on survival skills. The gods knew he didn't seem to possess any naturally.
Provoked, the group exchanged meaningful looks and dark chuckles. "Best friends with a baby," they murmured, "Probably because he couldn’t find anyone else willing to be his friend."
Iolaus refused to turn red or feel ashamed. He lifted his chin defiantly, reaching back to grip Hercules' wrist in a reassuring way before facing the others squarely.
"He is my friend," Iolaus said. Then, fierce as fire, "And I don't appreciate stupid brutes picking on my friends."
This, of course, ended any chance of them escaping the scene without a tussle. Outraged by his insult, one of the boys immediately shoved him hard enough that he staggered, falling against the table. The wooden scaffold hadn’t been intended for heavy burdens – just soft, smiling toys and straw-filled animals. It broke under Iolaus’ weight with a creak as one of the legs gave. Then there was a flurry – dust and bits of shaft in the air, a scattering of dolls, and Herc’s cry.
“What’s going on over here?” a harsh voice interrupted suddenly. From the back of the shop, a heavy-set man emerged, the stubble on his chin bristling with wrath. He was Jakob, and though he was admired as a craftsman, no one ever commented on his gentle spirit. The fierce brown eyes got round when he saw the mess. “You boys! Don’t you dare move, you hear me?”
The little gaggle of bullies parted for him, and he dragged Iolaus up roughly by the shoulder. “Skouros’ boy, I might have known.” He gave the blonde a shake, rattling his teeth. Then he glared around at the others. “What happened?”
“Iolaus starts fights.” Gregeus spoke for his group, lip pouting slightly as though gravely wronged.
Hercules fluffed up like a cat. “That’s not the truth!” he declared, and his teeny voice was higher than usual in his outrage. “They were picking on me. Iolaus told them to stop it!”
But the town boys were well known to old Jakob. Their parents were acquaintances, and anyway Iolaus’ reputation for getting into mischief was infamous. He shooed the older riffraff with a swipe of a hand, “Out of here, you fracas. I don’t want to see you again today.” Then he pointed to Hercules, “And you should go back to your mother.”
Tearfully, Hercules reached for his friend. The rag doll lay forgotten by his feet. “Iolaus.”
“It’s okay, Herc,” the tousle-haired boy reassured. He could physically feel the heat of Jakob’s glower. The man was loosing his patience, and Alcmene had trusted him… “Go back to your mom. Tell her,” he swallowed. “Tell her I got into trouble and I can’t watch you anymore.”
He could tell that the child was reluctant to leave him. His eyes got so large when they looked up the brawny man that had Iolaus hooked by the arm. But Hercules would do almost anything that Iolaus said. “O-okay,” he finally murmured.
Jakob watched him go. “Little bastard,” he commented once the child had backed out the door and darted down the street towards the venders of fresh produce, baskets, and farm equipment. His grip tightened. “Almost as bad as no-good rabble-rousers who damage things they can’t pay for.”
Iolaus glared at the ground. Though he was willing to take the blame, he refused to apologize for something he didn’t regret. He would break a thousand tables before he’d let someone hurt Hercules.
Jakob kicked at the cloth moppet discarded on the dirt floor. “That’s ruined, along with my table and half the other dolls. I should turn you over to the guards and have them whip you, but then they’d drag you back to that drunkard and I’m not a cruel man.”
Iolaus wished he could say different, but a little shiver went through him anyway. He didn’t want to be taken back to his father. “You gonna beat me?” he asked.
The man nodded gravely, and a little of the fierceness he was so known for came back into his eyes. “To teach you to keep you skinny hind parts out of my shop and to respect other people’s property. But I’ll be doing you a favor, boy, and we both know it.”
Iolaus looked at him with apprehension. Suddenly his palm looked very wide and heavy. Still, he nodded and didn’t struggle. Hercules was okay, and that was what mattered. He’d do the same thing again, regardless of the consequences. It was the job with which he’d been entrusted, and he would never fail in it.
Alcmene was just beginning to wonder where her boys had wandered off to when a tousle of brunette hair came squeezing through the sea of sashes and sandals. He spotted her and immediately peeled towards her in a stumbling run. “Mama!” he cried and buried his face in her skirts.
“Hercules.” She pressed her hands against his trembling shoulders. Her first instinct was to look to a familiar blonde for an explanation, but to her surprise he was not there. The woman frowned. It wasn’t like Iolaus to leave her son alone.
Turning back to her distraught child, she cupped her hands around his blotched, streaky face and asked him firmly, “Where is Iolaus, baby?
Hercules hiccupped, a few more swollen tears slipping down his cheeks. “The bad boys hurt me, and Iolaus said, ‘no.’ Then they pushed him.”
It was hard to be surprised by this; Iolaus was an eager, scrappy lad prone to brawls, and he would never forgive someone for picking on her boy. Had he gotten outnumbered? If they’d bloodied him, oh, just wait till she found their mothers. “Where is he, Hercules?” she wanted to know. “Did he get hurt?”
The child pressed his nose between her knees, muffling his voice. “S’wif the toy-man,” she thought she heard him say, and then sob. “He’s in trouble, oh. Mama, help.”
Alarmed, Alcmene turned her face to the south road, down which Jakob the craftsman kept a shop for fine goods, including toys. He was a swarthy, loutish man – not mean, but coarse and short-tempered. Snatching up her child’s hand, she hiked up her skirts and began moving quickly down the path.
‘Oh, Iolaus,’ she thought. ‘I hope your faithfulness hasn’t led you to suffering.”
Iolaus sat hunched over in a narrow ally a few shops over from Jakob’s toy shop. He wasn’t sniffling, but his nose was runny and his eyes itched like anything. Irritably, he rubbed at them, harshly forcing back the ache in his chest.
Jakob hadn’t beaten him as badly as he could have; an open-handed drubbing was a generous alternative to what his father might have done to him if he’d found out he’d been in another fight. The craftsman hadn’t lied when he said he wasn’t a cruel man. Stern and unforgiving, but not cruel or unfair.
Which was why he wasn’t going to be a baby about this.
Gingerly, he braced his back against the cracked plaster of the building behind him. The sharp twinges left no doubt he’d wake up bruised to the bone, and unwillingly he felt his mind drift backward. He hated being handled that way. It made him feel hot and ashamed and angry – but a helpless kind of angry that just coiled around inside until it doubled back on his own self. He hated that feeling. The bullies he could handle, the black eyes and fat lips and scrapped knees. But having to stand there like a dumb animal and take it…
“Iolaus.”
He’d have known that soft, feminine voice anywhere, but instead of being glad he drew a little further inward. He didn’t feel like the concerned attention right now, not when he felt so vulnerable. Better that he go back to his mother’s indifferent, glazed-over expression instead. There would be no questions asked from that quarter.
He was just about to slink away towards the woods and Thebes’ rural outskirts when another cry joined the first – a pitiful little wavering wail. “Ooolaus…”
The blonde sighed, already defeated. The child sounded as though he had been crying for an hour. Forcing his unwilling body to unfold, Iolaus grunted and made his way down the aperture. “Over here, Herc,” he called.
The little creature that came hurling into him nearly bowled him over, and he couldn’t keep the grimace from his face when Hercules’ unnatural strength put pressure on his tender back and sides. The boy cried and cried, rubbing his snotty nose into the front of his friend’s tunic. “Iolaus,” he moaned, as though he had expected never to see him again.
“M’okay, Herc,” Iolaus soothed, sounding slightly choked. Caught between a desire to wrench away or offer comfort, he settled for patting the small back unsteadily. “Let me go, alright. Not too tight, remember.”
Hercules let loose his hold in an instant, the familiar prompt affecting him strongly. Though he still did not let go completely, his fist still tight around the bigger boy’s shirt. “Sorry,” he muttered, deeply repentant.
The slapping of sandals and the swish of a skirt, and then Alcmene also joined them. “Oh, Iolaus,” she said when she caught sight of his awkward posture. “I think I’ve left you with too big a task once again.”
Taking care of Hercules was never too big, and the future warrior put his nose in the air. His own hands circled the toddler’s shoulders, drawing him a bit closer. He was fine.
Seeing that obstinate expression, Alcmene sighed, aggrieved, fond, and resigned. She placed a slender hand carefully on his neck. “Alright then, we won’t talk about it. It’s dinner time. Will you being coming home with us?”
“Yes,” Hercules stated firmly in a voice that left no room for argument, and his grip, which had hitherto been mostly for show, become steely and insistent. Iolaus wasn’t entirely sure that he had yet sorted out that his friend had another home, or that he should feel the need to be anywhere else.
“Will your mother worry?” Alcmene asked him; innocently, like Hercules. He hoped she would never entirely know the truth.
He shook his head honestly, and let them led him when they started down the path towards the farm. He volunteered to carry the heavy basket of market goods, and told jokes and stories to keep Hercules entertained. The dusk descended as they walked in a twilight of blooming purple posies. And Iolaus was right where he wanted to be, regardless of the consequences.
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