The shield of hercules s.., p.1
The Shield of Hercules: (Sam Reilly Book 36), page 1
The Shield of Hercules
By
Christopher Cartwright
Copyright 2025 by Christopher Cartwright
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Prologue
January 31, 1953 – North Sea, Netherlands
The diesel engine rattled like it might shake itself apart.
Thick black smoke curled from the funnel of the Noorderlicht, as the winch dragged its heavy burden from the seabed. Ropes creaked, pulleys shrieked, and the deck shuddered under the strain. The 50-foot kotter, broad-beamed and weather-stained, was built for the shoals and sandbanks of the Dutch coast, not the deep fury of the North Sea during a rising storm. Her single mast leaned into the gale, nets dragging heavy from the seabed.
Cornelis van Dijk didn’t like what he was seeing.
At 17 years of age, he’d only recently started working on the fishing boat, but already he knew when something was wrong… and right now, it was definitely very wrong.
He stood by the rail, massive arms folded, trying to decide what he should be doing.
Captain Bart Jansen, a sixty-year-old sailor, with a thick, white Van Dyke beard, who looked like he’d been born at sea, cursed and threw the winch into neutral. “She’s snagged. Hercules, get down there before she tears the rigging clean off.”
Cornelis nodded and swung down without hesitation, moving toward the winch.
He’d earned the nickname long ago, hauling mussel sacks that took two men to lift when he was just 14 years old. Now, at 17, he looked the part: a bull of a man, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, with hands like iron. He rarely cut his hair and took little notice of his appearance, meaning that he had a shoulder length, unruly mane.
The Noorderlicht cut through the swell, her wooden hull groaning with every rise and fall.
The diesel engine that drove the winch labored under strain, its steady thump-thump breaking into uneven rattles. Hercules studied the steel drum of the winch grinding, cables taut as piano wires. The beam trawl nets rose sluggishly from the seabed, heavy with fish, shells, and half the sea floor besides.
Hercules narrowed his eyes.
He knew that sound – metal groaning, pulley straining against something more than fish. The gear was snagged. If they pushed it harder, they’d strip the winch or snap the chain. One way or another, he was going to have to get his hands on it.
Spray stung his eyes. Fish thrashed in the tangled net, silver bodies slapping against the planks, but something else caught the light – something brighter than scales. He dug into the mass, fingers closing around a lump of metal heavier than it had any right to be.
The heavy chain had looped itself into the winch’s gear mechanism, wedged tight between the cogs. Salt spray stung his face as he braced his boots against the slick deck and tugged hard. The chain resisted, grinding stubbornly against the teeth of the gears. With a grunt and one last heave, he pulled it free, the links rattling back into place.
He straightened, lifting the freed chain for the captain to see, then flashed a thumbs-up. From the wheelhouse, the captain gave a sharp nod and threw the winch back into gear. The engine roared, gears clanked, and the nets began their slow, laborious climb again, the deck vibrating with the strain of the catch.
A medallion, half the size of his palm, swung from a broken length of chain. Seaweed clung to it, grease from the pulley smeared its surface. He splashed it into a bucket of seawater, scrubbing with his thumb until the design glinted back at him: a man straining beneath the weight of the heavens, constellations carved into the orb he held – Orion’s belt, Leo, the twisting Hydra. The relief work was finer than anything he’d ever seen. Ancient. Impossible.
He swallowed, staring at it, remembering his grandfather’s fireside tales.
Ancient Greek legends.
All of them told with so much hyperbole that even as a young boy, he relished in their absolute fantasy. Stories of an expedition older than time, to hide an ancient treasure, that was priceless and deadly in equal proportions. The mission had been a success and the dangerous treasure hidden for all time, but the ancient Greek heroes succumbed to tragedy on their voyage home. His grandfather used to tell young Hercules that he’d descended from such heroes, and he’d liked to believe the fantasy…
Knowing full well that fantasy was all it was.
Only now, as he looked at the medallion… he wondered if there might be some hint of truth to the legends his grandfather once told him.
And if they were true, then what of the prophecy and its tragic outcome?
Erik Vermeer, a 20-year deckhand who ranked just above Hercules on board Noorderlicht’s limited hierarchy, shouted over the howling wind. “Come on Hercules, the tempest is rising in its anger. Let’s get these nets cleared so we can get out of here!”
Hercules nodded, surreptitiously slipping the ancient artifact around his neck, the heavy medallion hanging beneath his oilskin tunic, cold on his chest. His gaze turned to the horizon. Black clouds piled high and fast, turning the fading light into darkness.
The North Sea was changing.
But Hercules didn’t see the danger.
He was lost in the memory of the treasure hanging beneath his tunic. A treasure so grand it would change his life in an instant. Only a small part of him worried about the prophecy his grandfather warned of… after all, it was nothing but the crazy ramblings of an old man.
His eyes, ordinarily the bright blue of the North Sea, caught the glow of the deck lanterns as lightning flared across the horizon. For an instant they shifted, violet shadows flickering deep within the irises, as though the storm itself had left its color behind. To the others on deck, it was a trick of the light. To anyone who looked closer, it was something else entir
There was strength in those eyes, and mystery too.
Something that spoke of legends and bloodlines long thought lost. In the middle of the North Sea storm, he looked less like a fisherman straining against nets and more like the man his nickname implied – a man born half-mortal, half-ancient god…
Hercules grinned.
No, this medallion was a blessing, and it was going to change his life forever…
This was the luckiest day of his life.
And the Noorderlicht turned south, and sailed toward the safe harbor of Zeeland.
*
Rijksmuseum van Oudheden – Leiden
Matthias Verhoeven looked up at the looming façade of the Rijksmuseum van Oudheden in Leiden. The National Museum of Antiquities stood proud against the storm, its neoclassical columns and tall windows shuddering as gusts of wind howled down the Rapenburg canal. The storm had been building for days, and now it was tearing at the very bones of the Netherlands. People spoke in fearful tones of breaches in the dikes, of water rising where it should never be. He knew the truth of it: a fifth of the country already lay below sea level, and another quarter barely three feet above it. If the dikes broke, it wouldn’t be water flooding into fields — it would be the sea reclaiming land that had never been hers to begin with.
But while all eyes were fixed on shoring up the defenses, while fire brigades and soldiers hauled sandbags and ropes through the driving rain, Matthias knew there would never be a better time. The Rijksmuseum van Oudheden held treasures brought in from across the world, and tonight, under the veil of storm and panic, no one would be watching.
He kept his cap low, his coat collar turned high against the rain, and moved along the side of the building. A small window, half hidden behind an ivy-clad wall, rattled in its frame. He pulled a wrapped crowbar from under his coat. The glass shattered with a muffled crack, drowned out by the thunder and the groaning wind. If anyone saw, he could plead the storm had broken it and he was trying to help.
He slipped inside, boots crunching faintly on broken glass. No alarm. No guards. No one to stop him. It was his lucky night.
Matthias switched on his flashlight, keeping the beam low and to the ground.
The museum’s interior was dark, lit only by the erratic flashes of lightning through tall windows. Shadows stretched across exhibits: sarcophagi, Roman busts, hieroglyphs etched into stelae. He moved quickly, silent, down the corridors until he found what he was looking for — the Greek antiquities section, a traveling exhibition on loan.
His breath caught.
Gold glimmered faintly in the beam of his flashlight.
Resting on a stand, framed by fragments of amphorae and bronze spearheads, was a golden disc, wider than his hand, etched with concentric circles. The outer band was inscribed with a labyrinthine pattern; the inner, a faint relief of constellations, their positions carefully marked with tiny gemstones. At the center, an engraving of a lion’s head, its eyes two dull rubies. It was not just decoration. Matthias felt it — this was a map, a cipher waiting to be joined with something else.
Matthias slid the golden astrolabe into a weathered leather satchel, its flap held shut by a single brass buckle shaped like a lion’s head. The leather was scarred and worn smooth in places, the sort of bag that had traveled far more than its owner cared to admit. He turned and headed back out the way he’d come.
There might have been time to find other treasures, but no reason to risk it. After all, what he’d just stolen was already worth more than enough to pay for him to live out the rest of his days in comfort. He may have been a thief, but he wasn’t greedy.
Outside, the storm had worsened.
The streets of Leiden were awash, water spilling over cobblestones, canals surging dangerously close to their banks. Sirens wailed. Fire brigades rushed past with sandbags piled high in trucks, policemen shouted orders above the roar of the wind.
Matthias moved with the flood’s pull, following the Ljssel River, letting the water and the chaos cover his tracks. He kept his head low as he passed knots of men in uniform, some hammering wooden planks into trembling levees, others dragging ropes to reinforce the floodgates. The storm lashed at them all without mercy.
By the time he reached Nieuwerkerk aan den IJssel, the river was swollen, a dark and seething thing. Through sheets of rain, he spotted them: three large barges tied up alongside the Nieuwerkerk side, in the Haven at Kortenoord.
A perfect refuge.
Police boots splashed on the cobbles nearby. Their voices carried above the storm. He ducked low, darted across the quay, and slipped onto the nearest vessel — a broad iron barge with her name painted across the bow: De Twee Gebroeders.
Inside, it was dark, smelling of damp timber and diesel oil. He crouched low, cradling the satchel against his chest, heart hammering. No one had seen. No one would find him here. Safe. For now.
Then he froze. Voices outside.
“Arie Evegroen!” someone bellowed through the storm. “This is the mayor. Come on out!”
Footsteps clanged on the deck. A man’s voice, weary but steady, answered. “Sir?”
“Mr. Evegroen,” the mayor said, urgent, almost desperate. “I’m hereby commandeering De Twee Gebroeders.”
A pause. Then the reply: “What can I do to help?”
The mayor didn’t flinch. “I need you to ram De Twee Gebroeders into a hole in the dike — and save Rotterdam!”
From his hiding place in the shadows, Matthias felt his stomach drop. His safe haven was about to become a battering ram.
*
The Noorderlicht raced toward the narrow entrance of the Roompot, the tidal channel that opened into the harbor of Zierikzee. Waves reared up in the darkness, slamming against her bow, while the diesel strained as though every piston inside might tear free. The captain held her steady, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the flashing beacon ahead.
Then the storm struck harder.
A savage gust roared down from the northwest, a wall of wind that caught the trawler broadside. The Noorderlicht heeled violently. The boom swung loose with a screech of steel against steel. Hercules barely had time to cry out before it slammed across the deck with brutal force. It smashed into the captain’s head with a sickening crack, dropping him instantly. The impact flung Erik Vermeer, the other deckhand backward, over the rail, into the black water.
Hercules’ world narrowed to chaos. The storm howled, rigging shrieked, waves pounded the hull like fists.
From the water came a strangled cry. “Quick! Hercules!”
Hercules spun toward the sound.
The deckhand thrashed, one pale arm rising and falling with the waves. The Noorderlicht, rudderless, was rocking in all directions, caught between currents, her bow yawing toward the rocks.
He lunged for the pilot house, boots slipping across the wet planks, heart hammering. He shoved the fallen captain aside and seized the helm. His massive hands clenched the wheel, wrenching it hard against the pull of the tide. The trawler shuddered, groaned, then began to respond.
Hercules fought her like a wild horse, coaxing her nose into the wind, edging the bow back toward the man in the water. Spray blinded him, but then he saw it: the deckhand’s hand, clawing at the surface. He guided the Noorderlicht alongside, shouting encouragement, then dashed back to the rail. With a grunt, he leaned over and caught the man by the collar, hauling him bodily out of the sea and onto the deck. The man collapsed, coughing, trembling with shock but alive.
Hercules staggered back toward the helm – and then the world tore open.
A sound like thunder ripped through the storm, deeper and more terrible than any lightning strike. The very earth seemed to shudder. Ahead, the horizon twisted and buckled, the black silhouette of the dike suddenly collapsing into a churning wall of water.
The Noorderlicht lurched forward, caught in the sudden current. In seconds, confusion turned to understanding.
The dike had failed.
Hercules clung to the wheel as the trawler was dragged headlong into Zeeland, the sea rushing in to claim the land.
Hercules slammed the throttles forward, the diesel screaming as the Noorderlicht clawed for open water. For a heartbeat, he thought she might pull free, nose lifting against the drag of the current. For a heartbeat, he believed they might outrun the fury boiling through the breach.
But he was only fooling himself.
With a roar like the world itself breaking, the dike gave way. Water thundered through the gap, a monstrous torrent that seized the trawler and dragged her down into Zeeland.
