Training

"No, no, NO!" 

Iolaus yelled for what felt like the hundredth time as I somehow managed to tangle myself in my own sword strap. The blade dangled dangerously close to my foot while I hopped around trying to free myself. 

"What in Zeus's name is wrong with you, Hercules? You look like you've never held a sword before!"

If he only knew. 

Not long before, I was grading midterm papers, today I was trying not to accidentally chop off my own limbs with ancient Greek weapons. 

Talk about a career change.

As to what we are doing - well, at least what we were supposed to be doing was to get some weapon training.

We'd found this nice, quiet grove for the same purpose of 'practice' which in Iolaus's polite way of saying was "figuring out why Hercules suddenly fights like a drunk shepherd." 

The ground was already littered with branches I'd accidentally cut down during my flailing attempts at swordplay.

"I'm just experimenting with a new style," I said, still wrestling with the leather strap that had somehow turned into a puzzle worthy of a doctoral thesis. 

"Very avant-garde. Very... progressive?" The look Iolaus gave me suggested he was seriously considering having me checked for head injuries.

Twenty years of studying Greek warfare in books had not prepared me for this. 

Sure, I could lecture for hours about the historical significance of the Xiphos sword, but actually swinging one? My students would be laughing their togas off if they could see me now.

If you don't know what the Xiphos sword is, its is a is a double-edged, one-handed Iron Age straight shortsword used by the ancient Greeks. It was a secondary battlefield weapon for the Greek armies after the javelin. The classic blade was generally about 45–60 cm but the one I was holding was especially long!

"Let's try something simpler," Iolaus said, carefully removing the sword from my grasp like a parent taking scissors from a clumsy toddler. "How about wrestling? You always enjoy wrestling."

My eyes lit up. 

Finally! Something I actually knew about - even if my knowledge came from dusty academic journals rather than actual experience. 

"Great idea! Did you know that Greek wrestling techniques were actually developed as a way to-" I caught myself mid-lecture. "I mean... someone mentioned that to me. At a tavern. Probably."

The "wrestling practice" was pure comedy gold - if anyone had been around to watch. Picture this - a body built like a Greek statue, with muscles that could supposedly hold up the sky, getting flipped around by a man half its size. Every time Iolaus threw me, I'd land with all the grace of a freshman falling asleep in a morning lecture.

"Left foot forward! No, your OTHER left!" 

Iolaus kept shouting instructions while I stumbled around like I was trying to demonstrate Newton's laws of motion the hard way. The ground and I became very well acquainted - I'm pretty sure I found fossils with my face at one point.

But then something clicked. 

It started with a simple throw. As I got up for what felt like the hundredth time, dusting off dirt from places dirt should never be, my body moved differently. 

It was like finding a hidden file on your computer - suddenly, Hercules' muscle memory started kicking in.

"Hold the grip like this," Iolaus demonstrated, and my arms just... knew what to do. Twenty years of reading about Greek wrestling techniques started merging with these divine muscles. Each movement became a beautiful blend of academic theory and pure instinct.

"Finally!" 

Iolaus cheered when I executed a perfect hip throw. What he didn't know was that I'd mentally calculated the angle, approximately 43 degrees, the force needed - taking into account Hercules' enhanced strength, and the optimal point of contact. 

My internal monologue sounded like a physics textbook having a fistfight.

When we moved back to weapons, I approached it like grading papers - methodical and precise. Each sword swing became a lesson in angular momentum. Every block was an exercise in force vectors. I found myself muttering things like "assuming no air resistance" under my breath.

"Your style is... unique," Iolaus said diplomatically as I successfully parried his attack by mentally plotting the trajectory like a missile defense system. 

He watched me adjust my grip based on leverage calculations with a mix of confusion and amusement.

The practice dummy survived our next round, which was a major improvement. Sure, I looked less like a legendary hero and more like someone trying to solve a geometric proof with a sharp stick, but at least I wasn't at risk of accidentally stabbing myself anymore.

After long practice, I had developed what could charitably be called a fighting style. It wasn't pretty - imagine a math professor doing the interpretive dance with deadly weapons - but it worked. 

Sort of. At least the local trees stopped flinching when I picked up the sword.

As we sat down to rest, I could feel Iolaus studying me. The questions were coming - about why Hercules suddenly fought like he was solving differential equations instead of smashing things. How do you tell someone that their friend has been replaced by a man whose biggest battle until now was with the university parking office?

Then came that roar - not the kind you hear in nature documentaries, but the kind that makes you wish you'd updated your life insurance. The Nemean Lion seemed to be greatly upset with something as we kept hearing its roar every now and then.

Looking at my sword, which still didn't feel quite right in my hand, I found myself missing my classroom. Sure, students could be tough, but at least they couldn't eat you. Well, most of them anyway.

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