Hades Daughter (10 page)

“I have heard,” Deimas said slowly and very deliberately, “that even your own people, your own
family,
turned against you after your father’s untimely death.”

“I—” Brutus began.

“For which you were undoubtedly responsible,” Deimas finished.

“My father’s death was an accident,” Brutus said. His voice remained even, but there was no doubt in either Deimas’ or Assaracus’ mind that he was angry at the mention of his father’s death.

“With your arrow through his eye?” Assaracus said. He drained his wine cup, and refilled it.

“But then you did think he was a…what was it? Ah yes, a stag,” Deimas said.

Brutus said nothing, gazing back at the two men with a calm regard. The manner of his father’s death was, in the end, nothing to do with them.

“And now,” Assaracus interrupted the silence, placing his wine cup down on the table so hard that red wine spilled across its surface, “having killed your father, accidentally or otherwise, then having been exiled from your home community for the act, and
then
having wandered only the gods know where for the next fifteen years, you arrive off the coast of Epirus and say to your fellow Trojans, ‘I am your saviour, I will lead you from bondage into Troy.’ You are lucky, Brutus, that you even received the courtesy of an invitation to meet with Deimas and myself.”

“I am my father’s heir, and through him my great-grandfather’s heir,” Brutus said, his demeanour remaining cool. “I am the heir to all that was lost at Troy. If you had not recognised that then you would not have responded to my message.”

“We could just have been curious,” Deimas murmured, staring at the wine as he swirled it about in his cup.

“Troy is dead and gone,” Assaracus said, ignoring Deimas’ remark. “It is nothing but a rubble of drifting ash and broken dreams. There is nothing to be heir
to.
Claim what you want, Brutus, it means nothing to us.”

“And do you say the same to these?” Brutus said, and, reaching for a ewer of water that stood to one side, wet a piece of linen and rubbed away the oil and ash that obscured the golden band on his left biceps.

“Very pretty,” Assaracus muttered, but Deimas’ eyes widened at the sight, and Brutus did not miss it.

“I say to you,” Brutus said to the two men, “that while there are still men who call themselves Trojans, then there
is
a Troy to be heir to! Not the old Troy,” now he included both men in his gaze, “but a new Troy. When I said that I would lead you into Troy I
meant not the ancient Troy, but a new one, alive with the hopes and dreams and the heritage of all those who still call themselves Trojans.”

“And where might this new Troy be?” Deimas said. His tone was aggressive, his manner confrontational, but Brutus thought he saw a gleam of desperate hope in the man’s eye.

Deimas wanted to believe, but could not yet find the means to do so.

“Not in this world,” Brutus said. “All the great cities of the Minoans, the Mycenaeans and the Trojans—and the Egyptians as well for all I know—are now rubble. Troy, Atlantis, Knossos, Tarsus, Pylos, Iolkos, Thebes, Midea and a score more that I could name. They have been destroyed by invasion, by upheavals of the earth and by fiery mountainous eruptions. What further can the gods do to voice their displeasure? It is time for a new beginning, and a new Troy, but one very, very far from here.”

“Where?” said Deimas softly. “
Where
?”

“The gods will show me.”

Deimas threw up his hands, disbelief winning out, and Assaracus grunted derisively. “I say to you again, Brutus,” Assaracus said, “what do you here, saying you wish to lead your brethren to a new beginning? Why should anyone follow
you
?”

“
Because
of my lineage! I was born to lead, and I have the
right
to claim my heritage. I am born of the god-favoured…my own great-great-grandmother was Aphrodite, and my line is favoured by the gods!”

“Not your father, most apparently,” Assaracus murmured, but Brutus took no notice.

“
And
because of my fifteen years spent wandering. Do you think those years were spent in vain? I have three shiploads of seasoned warriors at my back and these fifteen years have made me a seasoned leader of men. And yet further, because my people, my fellow
Trojans, are kept here in slavery—I cannot believe they wish to remain so. And, finally, do either of you believe that Mesopotama will escape the fate of so many other cities of our once-proud region? Sooner or later Ariadne’s revenge will envelop this city as well. It is time to leave now.”

“How?” Deimas said. “This talk of freedom is all very well, but how shall it be accomplished. Will you ask Pandrasus for our freedom?”

“Aye,” Brutus said. “That is what I will do.”

“Bah!” Assaracus replied. “I know Pandrasus, and a prouder man I have never met. He will not let his enslaved work force just ‘leave’. And leave
how
? Would you have your fellow Trojans walk to wherever you decide to build your new Troy? The land about here is mountainous and treacherous…and you have only three ships. Deimas, how many Trojans are there?”

“Seven thousand.”

“Seven thousand. I ask you, Brutus, how will you shift seven thousand, including women and children, ancients and infants, and all their worldly goods, to a ‘new Troy’ in some far distant land?”

“I intend to ask Pandrasus for the ships,” Brutus said, and grinned at the expression on the faces of his companions. “Listen to me. If I can get Pandrasus to not only agree to allow the Trojans their freedom, but also to provide the ships and provisions for our journey far distant, will you then agree to sail with me? Will you agree that if I accomplish that much then I have the
right
to claim my heritage?”

Assaracus and Deimas looked at each other, and Brutus could see the misgivings in their faces.

“I am sorry,” Deimas said, “but none of this has convinced us you are the heir of anything but hopes and words. You cannot seriously mean us to believe that you can somehow manage to persuade Pandrasus
to grant freedom to his slave force, then manage to get him to donate several score ships so that we may sail to ‘somewhere’—a somewhere that the gods will reveal to you in their own sweet time—so that you can build a ‘new Troy’. Brutus, I can’t possibly—”

“I am the man,” Brutus said, his tone very low, “and I have the means to accomplish this. The way will be hard, yes, but I
can
lead the Trojans back into their pride and their heritage.”

“Then prove it!” Deimas snapped. “And with something other than words!”

Brutus stared at him, then abruptly he again reached for the water and linen cloth and rubbed away at the other kingship bands, revealing their golden splendour.

Then he briefly closed his eyes, praying to Artemis for strength.

He thought he heard a soft laugh, and knew that she was with him.
Let me tell you a secret,
she whispered into his mind.
Ariadne left the Game alive, weak and insignificant, in one place only. This is it. If you wish to impress these two fools, then draw on the power of the Game as you were trained.

Brutus almost stopped breathing. Draw on the power of the Game? Here and now?

I believe in you,
she whispered.
Do it.

Brutus opened his eyes, then made a strange gesture with his right hand that had Deimas suddenly leaning forward in his chair, his eyes sharp with puzzlement.

“See,” Brutus whispered, and with his right hand still open from the gesture it had made, he pointed to the eastern wall of the andron where spread the scene of Troy’s fall.

Save that now the scene had shifted, and the mural did not depict Troy’s death at all. Instead, it showed a city rising on the far bank of a mighty river. As yet the city contained little in the way of buildings, save for a magnificent palace atop a mound in one corner, but the
walls had been completed in pale dressed stone. They were thick and high, with fortified semi-circular bastions every three score of paces.

At one end of the city there sat the main gateway, and before this gateway danced two long lines of maidens and warriors, holding in their hands flowers and torches.

A beautiful, black-haired woman led one line, while at the head of the other danced Brutus.

“I am heir to
all
that Troy implies,” Brutus said softly. “
All of it!
”

He dropped his hand, and the mural reverted to its aspect of Troy destroyed.

Assaracus and Deimas stared a moment longer at the wall, then, very slowly, turned back to face Brutus.

It was Deimas who finally spoke. “I will speak to my people,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, “but already I know that they will say, we are with you.”

“Good,” said Brutus. He looked at Assaracus. “And you?”

“I am yours, too,” Assaracus said.

Brutus nodded, and smiled. “Now, these ‘swords’ that you mentioned, Assaracus. What exactly do they comprise?”

Two nights later—as the guards at the gates lay insensible, drugged with the wine Assaracus had sent down earlier—a group of some three hundred men, well-armed and armoured, slipped out of the city.

Assaracus was at their head, and Deimas, leader of the enslaved Trojans, as well as several score of Trojan men, their hair cropped close to their skulls to lose their hated mark of slavery, ran among Assaracus’ mercenaries. They exited the city, then turned on to the road that led east to the steep, forested Acheron gorges.

There, silently and patiently, awaited the bulk of Brutus’ warriors.

Behind him, Assaracus left a Trojan population holding their collective breath in hope, and a small but courageous boy on his way to Pandrasus’ palace to deliver a modest roll of parchment wrapped in pristine linen.

Llangarlia

L
oth sat close by his father, his head bowed in respect.

They were alone in the stone house that Genvissa’s third foremother had caused to be built. Unlike most Llangarlian houses, which were round with conical thatched roofs, this was a rectangular structure with a heavy (but admittedly completely weatherproof) slate roof. It made Loth uncomfortable, as if the strangeness of the structure kept him a prisoner from the land he loved so much, and he rarely came in here. He couldn’t understand why his father wanted to live here with Genvissa…but then, Aerne was all too clearly approaching his ancient addledness. Genvissa had him where she wanted him: in her house, in her bed, and, like any defenceless infant, dependent on her breast for comfort, nurture and safety.

Tonight, however, Loth had ventured into the hated structure because he wanted to speak with his father alone, and he knew Genvissa was meeting with Mother Mais at her house some way distant.

Loth almost grinned at the thought. Mother Mais was one of his, and he doubted she’d be giving Genvissa much more than the merest courtesies demanded of any host.

Aerne patted his son’s knee, happy to have him near for a change.

“I am pleased you came, my son.”

Loth successfully fought the urge to roll his eyes, and merely nodded, as if this domestic harmony was what he, too, had craved all this time.

“I needed to speak with you, father. Genvissa—”

“I know what you want to say, Loth. No reason to speak it aloud.”

“But I
need
to. Father, I have strange doubts regarding Genvissa. I distrust her, and yet cannot form that distrust into words. What she proposes, to bring a strange magic into Llangarlia to counter Og’s weakness, is…is…”

“Is
necessary,
Loth. You know that. What can you and I do, weak as we are?”

“We still have some power left, some of Og’s benefice! Surely—”

“What we have is a mere shadow of what once existed, Loth. I should know. I once commanded all of Og’s power. Tell me, how long has it been since anyone has seen the stag run wild through the forests?”

“Only last week Coel brought down a magnificent red stag.”

Aerne smiled sadly. “You know that is not what I meant. How long has it been since anyone has seen
the
stag? The white stag with the blood-red antlers. Og himself, running free.”

Aerne gave Loth a long moment of silence, then spoke again, infinitely gently. “The last time was the night of your conception, Loth. Running as if panicked through the forests in which I lay with the witch, Blangan. And he had good enough reason to fear…didn’t he?”

Loth hung his head, hating himself for his own conception, hating his mother for what she had done.

“You have been the best of sons,” Aerne said. “I wish I was able to hand over to you Og’s full power on my deathbed.”

“Perhaps, when you die, the power
will
be reunited in me.”

“No.
No
, Loth. When I die what I have will die with me. Og will be even less. Genvissa needs to bring in this male magic, Loth, for this land…if not for our peace of mind and pride. She needs to act
now,
for if we are both dead before she has completed her task, then this land will lie defenceless.”

Loth shook his head, desperate not to accept what his father was saying. “I know what Genvissa proposes makes sense. I know it in here,” he tapped his deformed skull, “but not in here.” He tapped his chest. “Every part of me hates it.”

“That is your pride speaking, Loth.”

Loth raised his head and stared at his father with his beautiful green eyes. “What if it is not my pride, father? What if it is the remaining part of Og within me that speaks?”

“Oh!
Loth.
”

Both men jumped slightly, as if they were boys caught out in some mischief, then looked behind them.

Genvissa had come through the door, and had now paused just inside it, one hand resting on the doorframe.

She looked breathless, as if she’d run all the way from Mother Mais’ house, and also fearful, as if she’d come back to her home to discover the worst of the night’s monsters cheerily settled within.