Hades Daughter (20 page)

And more Dorians were following his example. Assaracus had no doubt that sooner or later their resentment would explode into violence, and an attempt to wrest back from the Trojans everything they had won.

Their departure could not be too soon for him.

“The oar crews are training well,” Membricus said.

“Good,” Brutus said, and both the men with him could hear the relief in his voice. All the ships would
require oar crews to augment their sails, some forty to sixty men per ship, and much time in the past months had been spent training sufficient crews from among the Trojans.

It had been difficult. Oar crews took years to train well, and only constant voyaging hardened them into mature crews, but the Mesopotaman Trojans had scant knowledge of the sea. Instead, the men and youths pressed into service generally spent hours every day on practice platforms which had been built along the shoreline. Experienced orderers, the men who beat the time for the oars, shouted and cursed in their efforts to get the trainees to stroke together, or to learn to back water, or to dip and hold, all manoeuvres oar crews needed to learn in order to control a ship. Sails were all very well, but too often the waters of the Mediterranean lay becalmed…and Brutus did not have enough provisions to feed the entire fleet while they drifted about aimlessly.

“We must leave soon,” Membricus said, unable to stop himself glancing at the waters of the shadowy Acheron River as it emptied itself into the bay. “It is midsummer now, and we will not have many months left before the autumn storms begin to bite. No matter how enthusiastic, our oar crews are not good enough to deal with the anger of the autumn storms. When, Brutus,
when?
”

“Within the week,” Brutus said. “We will leave within the week.”

“Where?” Assaracus said softly.

“Artemis will guide us,” Brutus said, then smiled, as if he had suddenly realised their concern. “A day’s sail south of this bay is an island. There Artemis is waiting for me. There she will show me the path towards Troia Nova.”

He turned as if to go, then stopped as he caught sight of a figure standing atop the walls of Mesopotama.

Even at this distance he knew who it was.

Cornelia.

Beside Brutus, Membricus hissed as he, too, recognised the figure.

Cornelia moved a little, perhaps uncomfortable under the regard of the three men, and as she did so a shadow suddenly poured from her, as wine pours forth from a ewer, and slithered down the city walls and across the ground to where the three men stood.

It touched Brutus, enveloped him in its gloom, and travelled no further.

“Sorcery!” Membricus said, grabbing Brutus, and pulling him to one side.

But as Brutus moved, so the shadow moved, and Brutus could not escape its touch.

Membricus hissed again. “She is a witch, Brutus. Beware!”

“Witch?” said Brutus. “Surely not, unless hatred and scheming can brew sorcery of its own accord.” He paused, not taking his eyes from Cornelia’s distant figure. “But I do not trust her.” Again he stopped. “I have only just discovered that Cornelia has been sending and receiving secret communications from…I know not who. She uses her nurse Tavia as her messenger.”

Both Assaracus and Membricus exclaimed, and would have spoken save that Brutus continued.

“No, you do not need to say it. I now watch her like a hawk.”

“Kill her,” said Assaracus flatly.

“She carries my son.”

“Then kill her once she bears him.”

Brutus gave a small smile. “There shall be no need, I think.” He glanced at Membricus, who had long ago told him of the full extent of his vision concerning Cornelia’s death. “Tell Assaracus what you saw.”

Membricus grinned. The retelling of Cornelia’s forthcoming death was always an enjoyable experience.
“She will die with a sword in her belly in the dank harbour of a peasant’s shelter the instant Brutus’ son has slithered from her body,” he said. “I have seen this.” He looked back to Brutus. “But I agree with Assaracus. Kill her now.”

“No. She carries my—”

“Brutus,
listen
to me.
See
this shadow. Do you remember, when we stood atop that hill overlooking Mesopotama, that I said I could see a darkness crawling down the river towards the city? It came from Hades’ Underworld. Look at this shadowy darkness crawling towards you now. Brutus, can you not understand what I am saying?”

Brutus glanced at his wife—she still stood, watching them, and it seemed that in that moment the shadow deepened about them—then looked back to Membricus. “No. I can’t. What do you mean?”

“Cornelia was born and raised and fed by the evil that crawled out of Hades’ Underworld down the river to Mesopotama,” Membricus said. “She is
Hades
’ daughter, not Pandrasus’, even though he might have given her flesh. Thank the gods we have to endure only a few more months of her.” He paused. “For otherwise, my friend, if she continued to draw breath then I think—I
know
—she has the power to destroy your entire world.”

D
eimas stood in the doorway of the bakery, watching his people bustle up and down the streets. He thought that a casual observer would believe that Mesopotama was, and had always been, a Trojan city, for it was the people of his blood who filled the streets, hastening between market and home, baths and city square, their hair now recut and partly regrown to blot out forever the signs of their slavery. In contrast to the Trojan presence, there was hardly a Dorian to be seen. Ever since Brutus had subjugated the city the Dorians had kept to their homes: silent and watching. Deimas grinned, folding his arms and leaning his shoulders against the warm stone wall of the building. Doubtless the Dorians stayed at home because they now had so many chores to occupy them. Where once despised Trojan slaves had dusted the hearth, folded the linens, and cooked the Dorians’ daily meat, now the Dorians had to do these onerous tasks for themselves.

The Trojans were free, and none had any taste for aiding their former masters in their daily grind.

Deimas suddenly caught sight of Cornelia, walking slow and heavy through the streets. Her face was lowered, one hand was resting on her belly, her body constantly twisting and turning to avoid the Trojans who pushed heedless past her. Deimas’ smile died. Few
among the Trojans liked Cornelia. Not only was she a Dorian, but she was the daughter of the hated Pandrasus. Deimas didn’t blame Brutus for taking her to his bed—she was a legitimate spoil of war, after all—but to name her his wife? Deimas shook his head. Cornelia barely spoke to anyone save her nurse, Tavia; Deimas hadn’t seen her pass more than a few words with Brutus in all the months they’d been together.

He shuddered, then grinned. Brutus no doubt didn’t require her to be particularly articulate in bed.

Then Cornelia was upon him, and Deimas inclined his head politely in greeting. Her face was red and sweating from the climb and the weight she carried in her belly, and her arms, Deimas noted, were much thinner than once they had been. Brutus’ son was draining her of all her plumpness.

Poor Cornelia, Deimas thought. Only some seven months ago she would have had a litter borne by sweating Trojan slaves to carry her to her palace in comfort. Now she was nothing but the sweating, exhausted litter for Brutus’ son.

“I am glad to see Brutus’ son grow so well,” Deimas said.

“Or daughter,” Cornelia said, stopping to catch her breath. “Who knows? Brutus may be capable of siring only girls.”

“Membricus says a son,” Deimas said mildly, watching her face and thinking that Cornelia must truly despise her husband. “All know he is a potent seer.”

She opened her mouth, but could patently think of no response. Instead, she wiped a straggle of hair from her forehead, gathered her skirt in her other hand, and stepped back into the climb.

Deimas watched her as she stepped out of view around a corner, then his eyes flickered upwards to an opened window in one of the houses lining the street.

A Dorian man was leaning out slightly, his eyes tracking Cornelia. As she disappeared, the man turned, and saw Deimas staring at him.

He grinned, insolent, then leaned out for the wooden shutter and banged it closed as he stepped back into the room.

Deimas’ face went expressionless. That had not been the face of a cowed and humiliated man.

Pandrasus sat in his small chamber in the palace he had once called his own, and waited for his daughter to join him. His Trojan captors constantly moved him from chamber to chamber, as if they wanted him to experience the discomforts of every pitiful, cramped room they could find, and this chamber was particularly bad. It was bare of all ornamentation—there was not even any plaster on the walls, let alone painted murals—had nothing but a rush matting floor, and its window was small and all but useless, as it opened on to a back courtyard that the butchers used for their slaughtering.

His chamber was constantly filled with the stink of blood and burst entrails, and, even worse, the sound of cheerful Trojan voices as they discussed their impending departure.

Pandrasus’ face twisted in a grim smile. Once he had found that talk disagreeable beyond measure. Now he found it amusing.

If only they knew.

He stood, impatient for Cornelia’s arrival, and brushed down his waistcloth. It was creased and stained. No one now came to robe him, and none to wash and brush his linens. Pandrasus the king was served no longer, save by his vengeful thoughts, and by his daughter, who brought to him what she could beg or steal from the Trojans who now cavorted about the palace.

When all was done, and the Trojans dead, Pandrasus knew he would need to spend months repairing the palace from their carelessness, and airing it from their stink.

There was a step at the door, and Pandrasus looked to it eagerly.

“Cornelia. Beloved daughter!”

She walked to meet him, limping slightly from a sprain caused by her long walk from the gates and embraced him.

Both she and Pandrasus leaned away from her bulging belly, both hating it equally.

“Sit,” Pandrasus said, taking her arm and guiding her to the single bench his captors had allowed him, abhorring the grateful sigh she made as she finally relieved her legs of her weight.

If Pandrasus thought he could wrench that child from Cornelia’s belly without causing her any harm in the doing he would have done so in a moment. Every time he saw her, that belly had grown just a bit more. And every time Pandrasus saw that belly, he was reminded of how it had been made, and his mind’s eye saw his beautiful daughter pinned beneath Brutus’ body, and every time he thought of that, he vowed revenge.

And how strange, he now thought, sitting by Cornelia and taking her hand, that the revenge should have come from this girl.

No, girl no longer. These past seven months had turned Cornelia into a woman, and her humiliation at Brutus’ hands had turned her mind from girlish things to schemes of revenge.

“You are tired,” Pandrasus said. “I have some wine. Would you—”

“No, father. I paused to drink on my way to you. Save it for yourself.” She heaved a sigh, and patted her belly. “It grows larger each day.” Her mouth twisted.
“And each time it moves within me I am reminded of my purpose. And yours.”

“Aye. Did you—?”

Her eyes flitted to the door, knowing she must watch every word spoken. “Yes. All is well.”

“And ready?” His voice was soft, and both fearful and hopeful. So much rested on her reply.

She nodded, her eyes shining, and the hand on her belly clenched into a fist. “Yes. The final ships have arrived.” She raised her eyebrows significantly at her father.

Pandrasus drew in a deep breath, keeping his excitement under control. The final ships had arrived…

“From Nichoria?”

“Yes.”

“And their cargo?”

“Undamaged,” she said, very low, “and undiscovered. The ships arrived at night, and disgorged their payload on the coast some two hours’ sail south of the Mesopotaman bay. Needless to say,” her eyes flickered once more towards the door, “I am sure that payload is now much, much closer.”

Pandrasus’ tongue crept over his lips, tasting the revenge that was now so close. Cornelia had worked tirelessly these past few months, using Tavia to conduct the secret negotiations (and the necessary threats) between himself and Podarces, ensuring that all was in its set place, using her quick mind to solve any potential hurdle. Their revenge was brilliant not only in its audacity and potential, but in its ability both to defeat
and
humiliate the Trojans. It was Troy all over again. The ships that Brutus had forced Pandrasus to requisition carried not only Brutus’ hopes, but also his doom.

F
ive days after Cornelia’s shadow had fallen across him, Brutus gave the order to load the fleet for sailing. The ships were already stocked with non-perishables: thousands of amphorae were filled with water, wine, oil, honey, grains, herbs, nuts, preserved eggs, dried vegetables and fruits, and stoppered tight against the sea; spare linen sails and fibre ropes, enough to refit half the fleet if need be; woollen wraps and blankets against the night cold; vials of medicines and unguents; and those useful household items that could not be left behind—utensils, pots, tools, looms, spindles and baskets.

Tucked into the holds of the deepest merchant ships were stacks of gold and silver and baskets of gems; Pandrasus’ wealth, given into the keeping of the Trojan fleet.

Now the rafts floating goods out to the ships were filled with more perishable items: three score of milking goats and ewes, as well as a few billygoats and rams and other animals; cheeses, meats and fresh fruits; broths of beans and pulses; fresh cakes of maza and turon.

Brutus did not know how long they would need to sail, nor what they could garner along the way, and he fretted night and day as to whether or not they would have enough to sustain seven thousand mouths during this unknowable voyage.