Look inside.

At dawn, Hercules was asleep in the courtyard of their house, propped against a stone pillar, with an empty earthenware jar between his legs and a woman’s sandal on his chest.

Beside him lay a blonde girl Iphicles didn’t know. Another woman had fallen asleep on a pile of furs beside the dead hearth. A third had left behind a carved bone comb tangled in Hercules’s hair and a bite mark on his shoulder. Fresh scratches streaked his back, some unpleasantly deep, though those seemed to be from a fourth woman…

Iphicles kicked him in the foot.

“Get up.”

Hercules opened one eye.

“Am I on fire?”

“No.”

“Is someone attacking Thebes?”

“No.”

“Is Hera here?”

“No.”

“Am I naked?”

Iphicles looked up.

“Almost.”

“Ah, must’ve been a good night! Why are you waking me up?”

“We need to talk.”

Hercules closed his eye.

“I’d rather be on fire.”

Iphicles kicked him again, harder this time.

Hercules growled and stood up. The sandal fell from his chest. The blonde girl mumbled something in her sleep and wrapped her arms around his leg.

Hercules took a good look at his brother.

They had been born on the same night, to the same mother. When Hercules was sober, with his hair combed and his clothes on, you could believe they were brothers.

He failed on all three counts that morning.

Hercules was bigger, heavier, and broad enough to block the doorway into the courtyard. His arms were crisscrossed with scars, most earned in battles, a few in beds that hadn’t been built to take that kind of strain.

“A woman,” said Hercules.

“How did you know?”

“The look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The look of a man who gave an honest answer and only then understood the question.”

Iphicles sat on the stone bench.

“Myrina told me to find someone better than her.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I didn’t want anyone better.”

“Good.”

“Then she said, ‘We’ll see.’”

Hercules frowned.

“That’s bad.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But when a woman says ‘we’ll see,’ she’s usually the only one who will. You find out later, when you’re already naked, on fire, or explaining to her brothers why their sister’s crying.”

“She also said I was an idiot.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean she’s angry.”

“Really?”

“No. She’s angry. But she was right about the idiot part.”

Hercules bent down, freed his ankle from the blonde girl’s arms, and covered her with one of the furs. Then he picked up the jar and sank onto the wooden bench opposite Iphicles. The bench’s broken leg scraped against the stone.

Iphicles told him what had happened.

When he got to the blue flower, Hercules interrupted:

“Did you at least pick that up?”

“No.”

“So you left your apology in the grass too.”

After that, Hercules listened in silence. Twice, Iphicles stopped to check that his brother hadn’t fallen asleep again. When he reached the words “I don’t want my first time to be with you,” Hercules covered his face with one hand.

“What?” asked Iphicles.

“Shove a hedgehog under my balls! Why, man? Why?!”

“I explained.”

“I’m not asking why you didn’t fuck her. I’m asking why you put those words in that order.”

“Because… It was the truth.”

“The truth isn’t a wild boar, Iphicles! You don’t have to carry the whole thing on your shoulder and dump it at someone’s feet.”

“Well, what should I have said?”

“Something else.”

“What?”

While searching for an answer, Hercules tilted the jar to his lips. Not a drop came out. He set it on the ground with a disappointed clunk.

Then he laid a hand on his chest. His voice grew suspiciously tender.

“You deserve more.”

“But she didn’t want more. She wanted to make love.”

“Then try: ‘I want us to wait.’”

“Why?”

“Because you want to wait!”

“But she’ll ask why!”

“Kiss her again.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“If you do it right, the question goes away.”

A last wisp of smoke rose from the dead hearth and drifted between them.

“I don’t just want to sleep with women,” said Iphicles.

“Huh?”

“I want to love one.”

Hercules looked at the blonde girl, then at the woman by the hearth.

“Well, you can love more than one…”

“At the same time?”

“It certainly saves time.”

“But that’s not what I mean.”

“I know. You’re talking about songs. About a woman you’ll see through the smoke of a sacrificial fire, with the light falling on her hair and the gods whispering that she’s the one.”

Iphicles hesitated.

“That’s more or less how I imagined it.”

Hercules laughed.

“Let me tell you, the gods never whisper anything like that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know a few of them. One in particular.”

Hercules leaned toward the hearth, found a half-burned lump of charcoal under the ash, and crushed it between his fingers. Gray dust clung to his palm.

Iphicles frowned.

“You know him because he’s your father.”

“He’s practically your father too.”

“He’s not practically my father.”

“He slept with our mother.”

“That doesn’t make him my father.”

“At least he spent a night with her. Most of his children haven’t even had that much.”

Iphicles didn’t answer.

When they were children, Hercules used to say Zeus’s name with pride. Iphicles only said it when he had to explain why the twins had different fathers. Ever since, Zeus’s name had stood between them like a low stool in a dark room. One of them was always banging a shin on it.

The blonde girl stirred by the pillar. The fur slipped off her shoulder. Hercules pulled it back up without breaking off the conversation.

“Look, I need some real advice,” said Iphicles.

“I’ve already given you some.”

“‘Kiss her until the question goes away’ isn’t advice.”

“It works for me every time!”

“Everything works for you.”

“Not everything.”

“What doesn’t work?”

Hercules lowered his gaze to the broken leg of the bench beneath him.

“Furniture…”

Iphicles stood up.

“Oh, forget it.”

“Wait, wait!”

Hercules caught him by the wrist and pulled him back. Iphicles landed on the stone bench with a thump.

“I’m not the one you should be asking.”

“Finally, you’re making sense.”

“You need to go and see our father.”

“Your father.”

“He’s good with women.”

“He tricks women by turning into animals.”

“So he’s resourceful.”

“He’s married to his sister.”

“So a complicated family doesn’t scare him.”

Iphicles stared at him.

“You’re suggesting I go to Olympus and ask Zeus how to find true love?”

Hercules nodded.

“He’s slept with more women than the two of us can count.”

“I can count pretty high.”

“Then you’ll have an interesting time.”

Iphicles didn’t smile.

“But has he ever loved any of them?”

Hercules wiped the gray dust off his palm onto his thigh.

“That’s something you’ll have to ask him.”

Iphicles looked up at the sky.

Far to the north, clouds were slowly gathering around Olympus, lit from within by a pale glow.

Iphicles didn’t believe Zeus understood anything about love. The songs claimed he understood women. And songs, as Iphicles would soon learn, lied almost as well as the gods themselves.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”

Hercules smiled and settled back on the bench.

“Say hello to Dad.”

“He’s not my father!”

“Tell him I sent you.”

“Won’t that make him angry?”

Hercules had already closed his eyes.

“So you won’t be the only one he’s angry with.”

At that very moment, lightning flashed over Olympus.

Iphicles didn’t yet know that Zeus had just heard their conversation.

And worse still: Zeus was free that afternoon.

Three roads led to Olympus.

All three began at a stone arch that the gods moved around to suit themselves. That day, the arch stood near Thebes.

The first was for gods. The second was for heroes. The third was for people who, for some reason, thought they could go up without an invitation.

The last ended at a rock covered in the bones of those who no longer thought so.

Iphicles took the second road.

Hermes was waiting for him at the entrance.

The god of travelers, merchants, thieves, liars, messengers, and every other profession in which it paid to find out someone else’s secrets first was sitting on a cloud, counting coins.

“Iphicles,” he said without looking up. “Hercules’s brother.”

“Iphicles will do.”

“For you, maybe. Not for the guest list.”

Hermes was young, clean-shaven, and handsome in a way that made people trust him with their purses shortly before they discovered they no longer had a purse. His winged sandals were worn, and his staff was adorned with two snakes that looked more honest than he did.

“Do you have an invitation?” he asked.

“No.”

“Any divine relatives?”

“No.”

“Acknowledged divine relatives?”

“No.”

“Unacknowledged divine relatives?”

“No.”

Hermes looked up and studied him.

“Your mother is Alcmene.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Zeus slept with her.”

“But that doesn’t make me his son!”

“This is Olympus. Around here, ‘Zeus slept with my mother’ is usually enough to get you a temporary pass and at least two years of family drama.”

“Look, Hercules sent me.”

The coin between Hermes’s fingers stopped moving.

“Hmm. Now that changes things.”

“Really?”

“No. But it’s interesting.”

Hermes put away the coins he’d been counting. The purse of gold from Iphicles’s belt was already dangling from his other hand.

Iphicles felt the empty spot on his belt.

“May your snakes coil around your balls! That’s my purse!”

“I’ll let you in,” said Hermes. “In exchange for a favor.”

“What favor? You’ve already taken my gold!”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how am I supposed to agree?”

“That’s how favors work. If you knew in advance, it would be a contract, and contracts mean getting Themis involved. Nobody wants Themis involved. She reads the fine print, ties you to the bed, and punishes every breach separately. With whips…”

Hermes fell silent for a moment, gazed over Iphicles’s shoulder, and went on absently:

“Or chains, or rusty barbed wire… or a unicorn’s horn…”

“No,” said Iphicles.

Hermes blinked and began undoing the drawstring of the stolen purse.

Iphicles remained outside the closed gates. A piercing scream came from the third road.

Hermes slowly took out a coin. He examined it, bit it, and dropped it in with the others.

“All right,” said Iphicles. “I agree.”

“See?” said Hermes. “You’re already learning how to negotiate with gods. Never say ‘no’ until you’re uncomfortable enough to say ‘yes.’”

The gates of Olympus opened.

Beyond them, the world looked as though someone had given an architect an unlimited supply of gold, marble, and narcissistic personality disorder. Columns rose above the clouds. Statues of Zeus gazed at other statues of Zeus. Wine and ambrosia¹ flowed from the fountains, and in one particularly pretentious courtyard, liquid honey.

The palaces climbed the slopes one above another, as though even the buildings were arguing over which stood closest to the sky. Bridges of white stone hung between them, with clouds flowing beneath like slow rivers. Nymphs² carrying amphorae hurried through the streets, along with priests bearing petitions and minor deities whose powers apparently didn’t include the right to walk at a leisurely pace. Somewhere, thunder rumbled without a cloud in sight. Elsewhere, a choir sang of the eternal glory of a god who stood on a balcony correcting their pronunciation of his name. The air smelled of myrrh and ozone. In the streets, no one gave way.

Every palace Iphicles had ever seen would have passed for an annex here. Olympus had been built by gods who took the word “enough” as a personal insult.

“Where’s Zeus?” Iphicles asked.

Hermes pointed toward the largest palace.

“In the throne room… the bedroom, the bathroom, or… wherever there’s a woman who isn’t Hera.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“Of course it does. Hera’s in the east wing. So he’ll be anywhere but there. All right, come on. Follow me.”

Hermes led him through the palace. On the way, they passed two nymphs whispering and giggling together, and a satyr³ with no pants. Outside an office marked “PATERNITY CLAIMS,” a young man waited with a scar shaped like a lightning bolt on his shoulder.

“Are there many?” Iphicles asked.

“Many what? Claims?”

“Children.”

“Oh, that depends on whether you count the rivers.”

“What? Why would I count rivers?”

“Because of one particularly long afternoon in Thessaly.”

They came to a tall door.

From inside came heavy breathing, rhythmic creaking, and a woman’s voice repeating the supreme god’s name in a manner quite unsuitable for prayer.

Hermes knocked.

The creaking stopped.

“Who is it?” Zeus growled.

“Family,” Hermes replied.

Behind the door, even the breathing stopped.

“Which family?”

“The human one.”

“Tell them to wait!”

“More specifically: Iphicles.”

Something heavy fell.

The woman laughed.

Hermes opened the door.

“In you go,” he said. “You’re not my problem anymore.”