***

"Please Hercules, you have to help me."

He stared sympathetically at the young man who, when he thought about it, wasn't really so young anymore. He was nearly thirty years old. He also had a wife and two children. Yet, Hercules remembered when he was a boy; how he would gleefully ride on the demigod's shoulders during play, and how the boy's mother and father would look on and laugh ...

But his mother was dead now, had been for two years, and his father ....

"He's gone off. Father's run away from home ...." Clarin exclaimed, leaning his broad back into a tough wooden fence of his own design and construction. "I should have paid more attention, Uncle Hercules. He kept going on about how he needed to go to Rome. Then he changed his mind and said he had to go to Galilee and finally ... finally he spoke of a terrible injustice. A man was in trouble. But not just any man, he kept saying. He had to go there to stop it." Clarin choked back worry, looking about his rich farm land for a few moments. He then brushed blond strands of hair away from his forehead, quite unaware of how he mirrored his own father when frustrated, "I haven't seen him like this for years, since Mother passed away. He was so focused and sure of what he needed to do. Then a week ago Father disappeared. I went to the docks and learned he had boarded a ship to Judea."

Hercules nodded uneasily. Clarin was a very intelligent scroll-smart man. In this respect he had taken after his mother. He was also clever, energetic and ambitious, like his father. He inherited his big heart from both his parents. Yet, where his gods-son was lacking was in vision. When it came to people, insight and the unnatural he could not see passed the obvious. After all, The Twilight of the Gods had happened after his birth. He had nothing really to draw on except the immense strength of a friend of the family.

"Where was your father getting all of this information?" Hercules asked.

Clarin grimaced, "Dreams. I know how unhinged it all sounds. But father said he was receiving visions of some kind." He rolled his eyes a bit at this, "They were telling him he had to take action." Again, he looked away from Hercules, regretting what he was about to say, "I know it's his age. Senility. Dad's mental faculties have taken flight. Both my wife and I noticed it. He thinks he's reliving his travels with you ..." Clarin tried hard not to allow bitterness infuse his tone, "Still, if Mother were alive I'm sure she would reigned him in. She always had a way of calming him and making him see sense. He was always so ...."

Hercules half listened. He knew his father well.

Iolaus was and would always be Hercules best friend. He enforced the statement on the day of his partner's wedding, thirty five years ago, when Iolaus finally decided to settle down with a lovely woman and start a family.

It was during the second year of the Twilight, when the Greek deities began to lose most - if not all - of their powers, that Hercules saw a change in Iolaus. But, when he later thought about it, the transformation wasn't truly unexpected. The god-blood Hercules had inherited from Zeus remained powerful, even after the full gods - those who survived past Olympus - began to slowly disappear. Hercules still had his strength and something more. He had always suspected but never really dwelled on his mortality until he witnessed Iolaus actually growing older.

As the years passed he'd watched his best friend's hair turn from a flowing and sometimes out of control gold into a slightly more brittle silver. He was there when the purple vest, that which had always displayed Iolaus well muscled physique, was exchanged for a slightly less revealing blue tunic. And his energy, that dexterity that was oh so crucial for Iolaus survival while they traveled together during their youth and prime had also ebbed.

Hercules would live forever, looking no more than thirty five years old, but his best friend - as all mortals must do - grew older. Some day, Hercules knew, he would die. There was no getting around it.

No wonder Iolaus felt the need to make a change in his life. The only way of significance a mortal man could truly carry on was through his children. Iolaus felt he needed this legacy. But more than that he yearned for security, knowing his life had to stand for more than the plaudits of common villagers. Heroics were all well and good but Iolaus felt it time to be a part of something more important and long lasting, more even than being the friend and companion of Hercules, the strongest man in the world. And if Iolaus couldn't do it in his lifetime then maybe his son could. Or his son's son ... or his son's daughter or someone with a bit of Iolaus blood in their veins.

Hercules, lifted his head to look thoughtfully at Clarin. Iolaus had told his son of he and Hercules adventures together but did the boy ever take any of them to heart? Were they just fanciful stories to him?

Iolaus had had visions before, a powerful insight that had left him obsessed ...

"I'm afraid he's going to Judea and will get himself killed, Hercules. Please go find Father and bring him back."

Iolaus might hate him for interfering but he could not look into the hazel eyes of Iolaus' only son - of his own favorite gods-son - and not take action.

"I will, Clarin, I will."

*****

The weather had gone bad but that did not stop him. He followed the three prisoners, as did so many others. Some in attendance were jeering and booing. Others cried bitterly. Iolaus himself felt as if a heavy weight had been placed upon his chest but he kept his weak eyes focused on the leader who, whilst chained and in agony, was balancing the heavy wooden cross over his lashed shoulders. Somehow, Iolaus thought a bit feebly, the man still managed to exude a sort of authority.

He was no thief or murderer. His crime had only been speaking from the heart, revealing a different manner of worship, proclaiming himself the son of a god. Or no, the God. The one and only.

The Greeks would call him courageous.

The Romans called him treasonous.

How Iolaus wanted to save this man! This had to be the reason he was having visions and why he felt captivated by this strange land. While on the ship his mind was beset by mental pictures. The closer he got to Judea the stronger they became. By the time the ship docked and they reached the Roman-ruled soil Iolaus knew exactly who it was he was looking for ... but it was too late.

The image he was searching for had been arrested and found guilty.

Never before had Iolaus felt his age and station in life as when he tried oh-so-hard to find answers to pressing questions but was dismissed during every turn he took. He was old and infirm. Physically, he could do nothing. But he wouldn't just let the crucifixion happen. The reason for him coming here couldn't just die along with the man he was here to learn from.

This man they called "The King of the Jews" was no criminal.

Iolaus knew it despite what Roman law decreed.

Yet, if he couldn't use his fists to free him - to bring sanity into an insane situation - perhaps his voice and a certain amount of reasoning would suffice.

Iolaus had gone to see Governor Pilate, a seemingly judicious man, a prominent civil servant. Iolaus and Hercules had aided him once many years ago, when he was young and traveling through Greece. He was being attacked by thugs who clearly meant Pilate great harm. He had been more than grateful for the heroes help and offered them hospitality if ever they chose to visit him in his own part of the known world.

With as much civility as possible, recalling a man of great political prospects, Iolaus now pleaded with his old acquaintance. He needed him to explain why this was happening.

Pontius Pilate had been oddly uncommunicative although he did voice his puzzlement. Why was Iolaus, a Greek who had no affiliation with the man who had the nerve to call himself "Christ", so determined to see him set free?

"I know in my heart that the crimes he is being accused of are false. And I also know he is far more than what he seems."

"But how do you know?" Pilate leaned forward and seemed suddenly very serious.

" I ... I ..." Did he dare tell him of the visions? "I don't know how I know. But he's special in ways beyond our understanding, Pontius. And I can see that you also know that his death would serve no purpose. Pardon him, please. Don't let this happen."

The governor stared at Iolaus for a long moment. "I've washed my hands of him, Iolaus."

But the Greek saw a look chase across his face. A fear and uncertainty. "You did what?"

"I evaded rendering judgment on this man for long enough but the crowds want blood. Finally, I yielded to a higher authority. If they want him they shall have him."

"Do you have any idea what you have done?" Iolaus nearly gasped, not truly understanding it himself.

Again Pilate stared at Iolaus, "You are very strange, my old friend." Then he turned his back to him, his white robes swishing slightly, and spoke resolutely. "Do not come to me again, sir. I would hate to have to do to you what is being done to the prisoner."