Page 12 of The Truth About Myths
And they wondered why he wished to leave? He could be one microscopic step away from finding the cure to typhus, and yet, his king wanted him as a babysitter. Henrique gripped the dice, pressing the ivory against his palms. "Why me? Ask for your equerry, or even better, Santiago." If the princess were the stickler for morality the rumors implied, she would appreciate the priest's company much more than his.
The king dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, his eyes going to the door and back to Henrique. "I can only trust you."
Trust. He should be flattered. The king or any of the country's politicians never recognized his research. Some sneered he shunned a public life to become a natural philosopher, no better than a sawbones in their narrowed minds. Henrique lifted his brows. "It's only Spain. What's the worst that can happen?"
"Since the Spanish queen was exiled and the army placed my brother-in-law on the throne, their political situation has deteriorated. That hapless Italian doesn't even speak their language. Their aristocracy is cooking something, and it is not paella."
First, the king's marital affairs, now this. And Henrique had hoped for a pleasant goodbye dinner. "You could have accepted the throne yourself. The Spaniards asked nicely."
Dom Luis straightened, his face turning somber. "My ancestors shed the country's blood to maintain Portugal's independence from Spain. If I had agreed to become their king, the next generation would see Spain and Portugal united. I cannot allow it. I wasn't coined for this." His gray eyes turned humid like they always did when he spoke about his deceased older brother. "No matter what happens, I will not be the king who loses Portugal's autonomy."
"If the Spaniards are troublesome, I have a much simpler solution. Keep your sister in good old Lusitania."
Glancing away, Luis tugged his cravat. "I... can't. You haven't met her. Isabel has a mind of her own."
"And you are king. Really, Luis, you shouldn't let the girl decide important matters." If Luis had put limits on this princess, she would not try to keep women in the Middle Ages.
Dom Luis snorted. "You don't live with them. My wife knows how I value punctuality. Do you know what she does? Runs late on purpose for every function requiring her presence. Not to mention her unbridled spending—"
"Women do not control my life because I don't give them the opportunity. You should try to be a king inside and outside your palace. My answer is no."
Dom Luis swept all semblance of friendliness from his face. He placed a hand over Braganza's unsigned deed and pushed it back to Henrique's side.
Henrique lowered his voice, gripping the port glass with enough force to shatter the crystal. If the king was not already cursed, Henrique would do it now. "Damn it, Luis. I won't be manipulated."
Crossing his arms above his chest, Luis lifted his brows in an imperious display of kingly demeanor. Dom Luis was more than willing to forget he was the king... as long as nobody else did.
Henrique drained the port. The liquid went down his throat with the ease of a struggling frog. "Curse you. I'll go. But I won't be ordered about by a spoiled princess. You'd better tell your sister who's in charge."
Henrique entered the Bacchus Club. Smoke clung to the wine-colored leather coaches like past patrons fighting for the best place. Sirens and satyrs frolicked over the arched ceiling. He found Dio lounging at his customary stool, scribbling on his notebook more fervently than usual.
Rolling the tension from his shoulders, Henrique massaged his temples. Worse than cheap brandy, the king's blackmail gave him a sour mouth and the devil's headache. But he wouldn't cry over the spilled experiment. What was done, was done. Henrique had a journey to plan, and Dio would have to help.
"I see you found your muse. Charles' Dove, perchance?"
Dio lifted his eyes from the paper. "No. I left him at the palace, of all places. Forget Charles. I decided on a subject for my literary masterpiece. I want to write Hercules’ biography."
"What?"
"No, before you object, listen to this. I will do it in twelve cantos, heroic verses. It will be brilliant. I've penned the first stanzas already. It begins with our hero dwindling on a farm, raising bovines. He is visited by Lady Virtue and Lady Vice. They fight for his allegiance until he follows the path of greatness."
Henrique drummed his fingers over the bar, wondering how to stop Dio’s nonsense about Hercules and breach the subject of Comillas. "The poor fellow should have stayed at the farm. What boon came from his toil? His only rewarding labor was the thirteenth."
"Hercules did only twelve."
"Chronologically, it should have been his job zero, but the Greeks lacked the concept of zero as a number. I'm talking about the impregnation of fifty girls in fifty nights while hunting lions. Before your man became a hero, he became a danger to the fathers of teenage daughters."
Dio laughed. Henrique shared his friend's mirth, and after the humor faded, he rubbed his hands and eyed him askance. Henrique only had to ask. Dio would pester him but would relent.
Dio pushed away from the bar stool. "You look like the proverbial horse manure. What's the matter?"
"I need you to take care of my bacteria."
Dio batted his eyelashes. "You flatter me, Your Excellency. I thought you would never ask."
"It's only for a few weeks."
"Aren't you moving to England for good? Why leave your research behind?"
