Hades Daughter (8 page)

“Do you think I was not dubious, my friend? That I did not narrow my eyes and think,
Who is this?
Was it truly Artemis?” Brutus gave a half shrug, then an ironic smile. “For a virgin goddess she was remarkably…forthright, but, well, for now I listen to her. These,” again he touched one of his bands, “responded to her. The power that is in these and which was in her was sympathetic, not antagonistic. I did not feel evil or darkness or ill will from her. Only—”

“Oh, I can see well enough what you felt from her, Brutus. Let not this,” one of his hands brushed gently against Brutus’ groin, “direct your thoughts, and thus our lives.”

Brutus stepped back a half-space, his eyes flinty. “I let power direct my thoughts, Membricus. That is, after all, what I was bred for.”

B
rutus’ sandalled feet slipped across the loose rock and gravel, and he had to bend down a hand momentarily to steady himself. He took a deep breath, forced himself to ignore the pain in his calves and chest, then scrabbled to the top of the rocky ridge, laughing breathlessly as he gained its summit.

“Come on, my friends!” he shouted to his still-climbing companions. “What ails you both? Age? Infirmity? A girlish fear of falling?”

Membricus and Hicetaon, both breathless and flushed of face, nevertheless managed a laugh, although Hicetaon’s ended on a soft curse as he jammed his fingers between two rocks.

Brutus, still smiling, reached down an arm and aided first Membricus and then Hicetaon to the summit of the ridge that they’d been climbing since dawn.

“Ah,” Membricus grunted, staggering a few paces away before sinking down to rest against a stubby pine tree that had somehow managed to survive the winds atop the ridge. “Are you
sure
you need my old eyes on this excursion, Brutus?”

“Ever since you confessed your fears to me, then aye,” Brutus said, looking meaningfully at Membricus, “I do.”

Hicetaon stood a few paces away, hands in the small of his back, stretching out abused muscles. Something cracked in his spine, and he sighed in relief and relaxed.

“I am not sure this is an excursion, Membricus,” he said, grinning at the grey-haired man, “but, rather, a punishment for whatever sins Brutus has catalogued against us these past few years.”

They all laughed, then Brutus helped Membricus to rise.

“You know well enough why we are here,” he said, and both his companions grunted their agreement. Late on the morning that Brutus had announced that Artemis meant them to rebuild Troy, they’d boarded their warships and sailed south. Now the warships lay at anchor in a shallow inlet that Hicetaon said was less than a half-day’s walk from Mesopotama, and Brutus had brought his two companions to this vantage point.

“Where is it?” Brutus asked softly, shading his eyes with a hand. Of the three men, he was the only one not sweating heavily.

Hicetaon scanned the coastline that stretched south, then pointed. “There,” he said. “Follow the line of the coast to that bay, then look to the southern shore of the bay. There is a hill, and—”

“Atop that hills sits Mesopotama,” said Brutus. “Aye, I see it.”

Membricus, who had the oldest eyes, was squinting painfully under the shade of his hand. “It is well fortified,” he said, noting the high wall that encircled the entire city and the single-gated entrance.

“And rich,” added Brutus. “See the roof of the palace at the very pinnacle of the hill? It gleams with gold.”

“Trojan gold, no doubt,” said Hicetaon bitterly.

“It will be soon,” said Brutus, and all three men laughed again, relaxing in the shared warmth of their companionship.

“There are some workshops but very few dwellings outside the walls,” said Hicetaon.

“Aye,” said Brutus. “The Trojan slaves, however many are left, must be sequestered behind those walls. To free them, we shall have to take the city.”

Hicetaon turned and looked at Brutus, raising his eyebrows.

Brutus shrugged. “That is a city full of Dorian Greeks, my friends,” he said. “When have
they
ever won a battle against true warriors?”

“You want to storm the walls?” Hicetaon said.

Brutus shook his head. “I think not. At least, not with warriors. With a little cunning, I think to draw out this arrogant Pandrasus. This is a sheltered city—there can be no other reason it has survived so long the Catastrophe—and I am thinking that maybe the Dorians of Mesopotama have grown a little soft in that isolation.”

“Is that a river I see emptying into the bay?”

Startled, Brutus and Hicetaon looked at Membricus. He’d been so quiet they’d almost forgotten his presence.

“Aye,” said Hicetaon, and something in his tone made both the other men stare at him in turn.

“It is the River Acheron,” Hicetaon said. He should have mentioned it sooner. He really should, but how does one ever break bad news?

There was a momentary silence, then…

“The Acheron?” Brutus said. “One of the rivers that leads to Hades’ Underworld.”

“Aye,” Hicetaon said unhappily.

Membricus stared at Hicetaon, then looked back to the view of the city. For some reason the distant city seemed clearer now, more in focus, and Membricus could easily make out the river winding its sinuous way from a distant gorge, through the valley system bounded by steep wooded hills, past the fortified city atop its hill, and then emptying into the bay.

Something thick and corrupt coiled about his belly, and he moaned.

Hicetaon made as if to reach out to him, but Brutus, sharp-eyed, held him back.

Wait
, he mouthed at Hicetaon.

Membricus drew in a deep, horrified breath. There was something dark crawling down the river, a great cloud that, as it reached the city, settled over it like a heavy, angry hand over the delicate crown of a baby’s head.

“There is darkness there!” he gasped.

“What do you see?” Brutus said.

Membricus cried out, but Brutus’ voice had broken his vision, and as he sucked in several lungfuls of air his face cleared of horror, although it remained grim.

“There is darkness—an evil—crawling down the Acheron towards Mesopotama,” he said. “But I cannot…I cannot see what.”

Hicetaon muttered something about the uselessness of seers whose eyes had clouded with age, but Brutus ignored him.

“Membricus?” he said, very gently, moving to stand close to the man.

“Brutus,” Membricus said, “Brutus…are you sure that you can handle the Game, if it does stir?”

Brutus took a deep breath. “Are you still so caught in the grip of your vision? Membricus, it is pointless to talk of the Game. Ariadne destroyed it, along with most of our world, and
all
of our hopes.”

Membricus’ eyes moved deliberately to Brutus’ golden bands.

“Damn it, Membricus. There is not a single Mistress of the Labyrinth left. These bands mean nothing without a Mistress.”

“And yet you said that those bands were sympathetic to—”

“Enough!” Brutus snapped. He found himself curiously annoyed with Membricus and his continual
prattle about the Game. It was somehow…intrusive. Almost sacrilegious.

“And if you are going to rebuild Troy to even half its former glory,” Membricus went on, “you will need the Game to—”

“Enough!”

Membricus shrugged, and looked away, and for a long minute no one spoke.

Hicetaon, whose eyes had been flitting between Brutus and Membricus during this exchange, finally broke the silence. “Brutus, are you trained in the Game?
Are you a Kingman?
”

Brutus sighed, and looked away.

Hicetaon raised his eyebrows at Membricus.

“Brutus is the son of Silvius, son of Ascanius, son of Aeneas, who was the son of Aphrodite,” Membricus finally said softly. “Brutus is of the line of gods and of kings, and he wears the kingship bands of Troy. Yes, Hicetaon, Brutus is trained in the Game. He is a Kingman. How could he not be?”

Hicetaon looked back to Brutus, and inclined his head in a gesture of the deepest respect. “Then I fear not, whatever shadows lurk above Mesopotama,” he said. “Do you, Membricus?”

Brutus, who had been looking at the city in the distance, now turned his head very deliberately toward Membricus.

“I always fear,” the old man snarled. “That’s what seers do best.”

Brutus grunted, half in laughter, half in derision. “Enough talk of this Game. It only distracts me. Beyond lies Mesopotama, and in it lie the people who will populate Troia Nova. Come, we need to talk of their rescue before we lose ourselves in talk of legend.”

“The Game is not legend,” Membricus whispered, but Brutus ignored him.

“Now, old men,” he said, “are you up for the journey down?”

Once returned to his three warships moored in the shallow inlet some twelve miles north of the Acheron and Mesopotama, Brutus hesitated just long enough before sitting down to his evening meal to send two of his warriors, disguised as labourers, to Mesopotama.

“Find the man who speaks for the slaves and tell him, whosoever he might be, of who I am. Tell him that I would speak with him. Tell him that I have come to lead his and mine into Troy.”

T
he response took just over one day, the two soldiers finally returning in the hour after the sun had fully risen to where Brutus’ three warships lay at anchor. Both were still dressed in the dusty garb of labourers, but looked well rested and fed; patently they had met with good hospitality. “Well?” said Brutus, who sat with Membricus and two of his senior officers, Idaeus and Hicetaon, on the aft deck of his lead ship. Below them, in the belly of the open ship, men sat on the rowing benches, cleaning and oiling weapons against the constant depredations of the sea.

“We have a return message, my lord. You are to travel this evening to Mesopotama itself, where you will meet in the residence of Assaracus, who dwells in the highest house against the northern wall.”

“The
highest
house?” Brutus said, raising his eyebrows. Obviously, this was no slave dwelling—not where it could catch the cooling breezes and offer its occupants a fine view.

“Aye, my lord.”

“This is a trap,” said Idaeus, whose manner was always one of caution when others advised action. Brutus sometimes wondered if his innate caution extended to his eating habits as well, for Idaeus was an unnaturally thin man for his height, but for all that
Brutus valued such circumspection in a world where so often men thought that wisdom equated with action.

“Too obvious,” said Hicetaon, who was a man more disposed to think of prohibitive caution as a greater risk than unthinking daring. His face, chest and flanks had the scars to attest to his philosophy.

Brutus had many years’ association with both men, and understood the extent of the arguments that lay behind their terse statements. He nodded once, slowly, acknowledging their advice, then looked back to the soldier who had returned with the response. “Tell me in what manner you received this message.”

“We found our way to a man called Deimas in the slave quarter,” the soldier said. “He speaks for all the Trojans. This man Deimas considered your message, and then asked us to return in the evening. When we did so, he asked us to relay to you the request to go to the house of Assaracus tonight after dusk, just before the gates close.”

Idaeus hissed softly at this last.

“What do you know of this Assaracus?” Brutus said to the soldier.

“Deimas said only that he was allied with the Trojan cause. However, he said further to his request, that only you attend Assaracus; that too many strange faces within the city walls would cause comment. One man will attract no comment, especially should you dress as a lowly labourer, or farmer. He has given us words for you to say, so that Assaracus’ doorkeeper may know you.”

“And Deimas’ manner? How would you describe it?”

“He was not overly impressed at your message, my lord,” said the soldier. “He merely grunted, then laughed shortly.”

“I
still
say ‘trap’,” said Idaeus. “Enter the city ‘just before the gates close’? You
will
be trapped!”

“Deimas is being prudent,” observed Hicetaon, folding his arms and staring at Idaeus.

“I agree,” Brutus said. “Deimas must be asking himself who is this man who arrives unannounced and says, ‘I am here to lead you into Troy’? I also would first make certain of my own safety.” He paused, dismissed the soldier, then studied each of his advisers’ faces in turn. “Membricus? Tell me your thoughts. Does this response cast a shadow over your soul? Do the gods whisper ‘Caution!’ in your heart?”

“No, Brutus. This message causes me no disquiet. Do what you will.”

Idaeus’ mouth folded in a tight line, and Brutus had to suppress a smile.

“Then I will go,” he said. “It can do our cause no harm that I should study the defences of both wall and gates from inside the city…and perhaps that was Deimas’ part intention.”

In mid-afternoon Brutus dressed himself in the garb of a simple farmer: a well-worn tunic of coarse weave belted at the waist with a leather strap, a woollen half-cloak against the evening coolness, and leather sandals on his feet. He removed the gold and bronze rings from his fingers and ears, but left the golden bands of kingship on his limbs, blackening them with a paste made of oil and ash so that they appeared as if they were made of worthless, stiffened leather. He rubbed a little dust into the otherwise clean and well-oiled black curls of his head, and some more over his hands and arms. He shaved, but only roughly, as would any farmer who had little time for the niceties of ablutions; his shadowy beard also helped to disguise his Trojan features (and for the first time in his life Brutus thanked the gods for his Latin mother, whose blood had diluted his Trojan appearance). At his belt he hung a pouch into which he placed some small vials of herbed oils, to present as gifts to his host, and over his shoulder he slung a larger rope sack containing wild
onions, garlic and a measure of dried figs, as if he intended to sell them within the city.