Hades Daughter (33 page)

The ship was a beauty, a warrior vessel, slung low in the water and with oarsmen so magnificently skilled and smooth he could hardly make out the dip and lift of their oars in the water. The hull was daubed in the usual black pitch, but the stem of the ship had been carved into the head of a mystic serpent, and painted in blues, greens, silvers and golds. The great linen sail had been dyed in similar colours, and in its centre strained the familiar device of Troy—the spinning crown above the stylised representation of a labyrinth.

“They are brothers,” he said, marvelling. “They are brothers!”

He began to wave with great sweeping arcs of his arm, then, when the ships had approached close enough that their oarsmen had begun the dip-and-hold manoeuvre to slow them down, cast himself into the sea, swimming towards the great warrior ship of Troy.

He reached its hull, and placed one hand on its pitch-black surface as he trod water, shaking the sea from his hair and eyes.

“I have never seen a fairer mermaid,” said a laughing voice, and Brutus blinked, and looked up.

A man of brown hair and fair complexion stared down at him, his open, friendly face wreathed in a huge smile. He was robed in a splendid sleeveless scarlet tunic, a scabbarded sword was belted at his hips, and gold and silver armbands ran up his arms to his muscular biceps.

“But wait!” The man affected surprise, and stood back. “This is no mermaid. To be sure, it is a man. What do you here, man, and under what name do you pass?”

“I am come to greet you,” Brutus shouted, “and, if you would be good enough to throw me a length of rope that I might climb to join you, to embrace you in friendship and brotherhood. I am Brutus, son of Silvius, son of Ascanius, son of Aeneas who was hero of Troy and son of Aphrodite.”

“Good enough,” said the man, as if the progeny of gods was the least he had expected, and personally tossed Brutus a length of rope, holding it steady as Brutus climbed hand over hand up the hull of the ship.

As Brutus swung his leg over the ship’s deck railing, the man caught sight of the gold bands about Brutus’ arms and legs, and he audibly gasped.

“They are the kingship bands of Troy!”

“Aye,” Brutus said.

“Then you are doubly welcome to my ship, Brutus, blood of heroes and goddesses,” said the man, clasping Brutus first by the forearms, and then drawing him into a close embrace. “My name is Corineus, of the line of Locrinus of Troy, and I head the four clans who have descended from him.”

“How came you here?” said Brutus, standing back and studying the man closely.

“Why,” said Corineus, his expression lightening away from his shock and back to humour, “by ship of course!”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” said Corineus, his grin fading. “My great-grandfather escaped from Troy with your great-grandfather, Aeneas. They sailed together for many years, but when Aeneas decided to settle on the River Tiber, my great-grandfather decided he still had some wanderlust left in him.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. Five ships of men and women continued on after Aeneas settled. And you are of those ships?”

“Aye. They established themselves on this coast, some distance north, where they built a city and divided themselves into four clans descended from Locrinus’ four sons. Come, take this towel and dry yourself.” Corineus’ humour had faded completely, and he stared past Brutus, now busily drying himself, to the fleet that lay before him. “By the gods, Brutus, something has bitten you well. And so many ships…how many, for the gods’ sakes?”

“Seven thousand people, give or take a few hundred,” said Brutus, “and ninety-five somewhat battered ships…we
were
one hundred grand sailing vessels until we became the victims of a supernatural-driven storm.”

Supernatural storms and unnatural earth tremors, thought Corineus. What in Zeus’ name was happening to their world?

“And you survived.” He looked back at Brutus, and Brutus saw the sharpness in his light brown eyes, and knew that the man wore his natural humour as a mask to charm words from men who would otherwise be more careful.

Brutus suddenly felt a respect for Corineus; he would never be a man to be trifled with.

“We survived,” he said, “due to the intervention of…a wondrous and powerful priestess. We were favoured indeed.”

Corineus raised his eyebrows. “A wondrous priestess?”

“It is a long tale,” Brutus said. “Should I discuss this now, or wait, perhaps, till you have guided my people to a safe harbour? We have injuries aboard, and much of our dry stores are ruined. My people are exhausted and hungry and damp.”

“We attend to your people’s needs first,” said Corineus. “My home is not far away—a day’s sail, if you can bear it, or a day and a half’s row in your ships if they are too damaged to raise the sails. Perhaps, if we row, we can talk tonight, over a meal?” He stopped rather abruptly, and took a step forward, peering at the ship Brutus had so precipitously leapt from. “Who is that fair lady?”

Brutus followed his eyes. Cornelia was now standing with Membricus by the stem of his ship, shading her eyes as she stared at Corineus’ vessel.

“She? She is my wife.”

“Your wife? Then leave her not there, anxious and curious,” Corineus exclaimed. “I invite her aboard, to keep you from worrying on her behalf, and you both shall tell me your tales as we sail to my home.”

I
was stunned into breathlessness. I had not seen a ship so proud and so beautiful since one of the Egyptian Pharaoh’s vessels had docked in the bay before Mesopotama several years ago.

Then I had been a girl, and had not truly appreciated its beauty and power.

Now I was a different person entirely, and I could see that this ship was the vessel of a proud and noble man.

I could see Brutus—dripping wet—talking with a richly dressed man, and I overcame my revulsion of Membricus enough to stand with him in the stem of our ship so I could see the better.

“It is a Trojan ship,” said Membricus, no doubt hoping to impress me. He was far too late. I was already hopelessly impressed.

The beautiful vessel had drawn very close now and I saw that the man who talked with Brutus had turned to look at me.

He smiled, wide and genuine, and it stunned me. I suppose I had vaguely supposed that Brutus’ contempt of me would have already infected this man. I had not expected such open delight and even—no, that could not be possible, not in my state—frank and open admiration.

The strange warship and the vessel in which I stood were now no more then two or three arm-lengths’
distance and men from both ships hastened to position buffers of close-packed straw so that neither ship should stave in the other.

Before all the buffers were in place, the man leapt gracefully between the rapidly narrowing gap, landing not two paces distant from me.

“My lady Cornelia,” he said, stepping closer to me, “I am pleased beyond measure that you have survived such a dreadful ordeal. Will you join me on my ship, where you may rest on silken pillows, and eat from the sweetest figs I could gather?”

I could do nothing but stare. There was not a shadow of contempt in his eyes, not a spark of hatred, not even a single measure of speculation. There was merely good-natured acceptance and curiosity and—I
still
couldn’t believe it—an unabashed admiration.

I was horribly conscious of my sodden, shapeless, crinkled robe, my large belly, my hair all in oily tendrils, my bare feet. I was wearing no jewellery, no perfumes, not a single mark of nobility.

And yet here he was, standing there with an unconditional smile all about his mouth and eyes, treating me with friendliness and respect.

I grinned. Under the circumstances, with both Membricus at my side and Brutus on the deck of the stranger’s ship watching me, it wasn’t the most advisable thing to do, but I grinned anyway.

“You know my name,” I said, studying him with as much frank admiration as he gave me. He was not a young man, older even than Brutus, and even though he wore a sword at his hip he carried about him the air of the ambassador rather than the warrior. His tunic and jewellery were rich and finely made…but none of this mattered much to me.

All that mattered was the acceptance I saw in his mild brown eyes.

He reached out his hands, and took one of mine between them. “I am Corineus, of Locrinia,” he said, “and you are most welcome to me.”

Then he leaned forward and planted a polite, but very warm and very soft, kiss on my mouth.

When he leaned back, all I could see was Brutus glowering at me.

I pulled my hand from Corineus’ as gently as I could and, as well bred as Corineus very obviously was, he understood the message immediately.

He turned to Membricus, exchanged greetings, then asked after the injured. “Brutus tells me you have wounded among your fleet, and your people are hungry and sore.”

“Aye,” said Membricus, and then the two men proceeded to discuss how best to distribute the three physicians Corineus had brought with him, as also their herbs and unguents to replace those we’d lost during the storm.

I just stood there happily; in fact, I don’t think I’d had a happier moment in my entire life. Everything before Brutus’ arrival in Mesopotama had been so superficial, everything after so terrible (and, yes, so much of that my own fault), that this man’s simple gesture of unreserved friendliness had the power to totally transform me.

I even smiled at Brutus, still staring down to where Corineus, Membricus and I stood.

Eventually Corineus and Membricus had arranged matters to their satisfaction, and Corineus turned to me again.

“Will you join your husband aboard my vessel, princess?” he said.

I shifted my eyes doubtfully towards his ship—although the gap between his vessel and this one was not overly large, the two vessels ground against each other, and anyone who fell between them would surely be crushed to death.

“Ah!” he said, perceiving my doubts. “Allow me…”

And in the next moment I found myself swung into his arms as he turned to the gap.

I gasped, all my joy lost in concern, and my hands tightened about Corineus’ neck.

“Do not be afraid,” he said softly. “I will not drop you.”

With that, he began to climb into his slightly higher vessel, one arm under me, his hands on the rope, his feet braced against the outer planking of his ship: he was much stronger than I had thought him and my fear subsided somewhat.

He even made me laugh, for he thought to amuse me by singing under his breath a silly seafaring ditty about the dangers of ravenous marine worms to beautiful princesses.

We were both laughing by the time he’d hauled me to the deck railing of the ship, and there was Brutus to take me from Corineus. I breathed a sigh of relief as I felt my two feet on firm decking again, and straightened out my robe as best I might, still smiling at Corineus.

I was about to thank him when Brutus spoke.

“You are a strong man, Corineus, to carry such a load!” he said, and—oh, the insult!—patted me on my belly.

I flushed with humiliation, then caught a glint of empathy in Corineus’ eyes, and managed to regain my composure.

“Do you have a maidservant, Cornelia,” Corineus asked, “that I can have brought aboard to help you with your ablutions and toilet?”

“My wife has a
companion,
Aethylla,” Brutus said. “Corineus, if it would not be too much to ask…”

“Then this Aethylla shall join your wife,” said Corineus. “Please,” he continued, “I have a well-appointed cabin on the aft deck. If I may escort your wife?”

I sighed, deeply content. This was a truly well-furnished cabin. Tapestries and linens hung from the walls, hiding from view the wooden planking. Luxurious furs covered the floor, allowing the eye only a peek of the mosaics beneath.

And it had a bath. A
real
bath in one corner that I sank my swollen body into gratefully—only the gods knew how Corineus had caused the water to be heated, but I cared not to think on such trivialities. I luxuriated in the comfort, closed my eyes, and leaned my head back against the rim of the bath.

I heard a step.

“Could you toss in some more of the herbs, please, Aethylla,” I murmured.

“These?” Brutus’ voice said, and my eyes flew open. He was holding a jar, his eyebrows raised.

I nodded slowly, my joy evaporated.

“Do not worry,” he said, and scattered some of the herbs over the surface of the water. “I have no thought to join you. I need to show Corineus’ physicians where they are the most needed.”

Then, in part lie to his words, he sank down to sit on the side of the bath. He reached out a hand, and ran it over my belly, then raised his eyes and looked at me.

“What was that I witnessed?” he said.

“What?” I said, confused.

“Did you think to make me jealous?”

I sat up in the bath as far as I was able. “I do not know what you mean.” His hand was still heavy on my belly, rubbing back and forth, back and forth.

“Your little display with Corineus. It shamed me.”

My mouth fell open. “He was courteous to me. And I was no more than courteous in turn. What do you accuse me of?”

He did not answer, but continued to stare at me with hard eyes, his hand now very heavy on my belly.

My temper snapped. “Did I put my hand to his hair, and caress it, and whisper sweet nothings in his ear? No!
I
am not one for such things!”

“He kissed you.”

“I did not ask for it!”

“Did you beg him?”

“It was a greeting only!”

“Beware, Cornelia. Do not think to use Corineus as a weapon as you have tried to use Melanthus.”

And with that he gave my belly a hard, painful slap, rose, and was gone.

I burst into tears, consumed with the unfairness of his attack.

I was too young, too inexperienced, to recognise Brutus’ temper for what it was.

Much later that evening we ate on the spacious aft deck of Corineus’ warship. Brutus had returned, and with him he had brought his immediate command: Membricus, whom I caught watching me carefully from the corners of his sly eyes; Assaracus, Idaeus and Hicetaon, who had kept to other ships during the voyage, and whom I had managed to virtually forget existed; Deimas and, of course, Aethylla, my “companion”, twittering and blushing with pleasure at the company she found herself in.