Ilium (59 page)

I have no urge to go into that nursery, but Achilles acts for me, striding ahead, his hand still tight on the hilt of the half-drawn sword. I follow.

My Trojan women are all here—Helen, Hecuba, Laodice, Theano, and Andromache—but they don’t even turn as Achilles and I enter the nursery. Hector is here, in dusty, bloody battle gear, but he doesn’t even look up at his archenemy as Achilles stops and stares at what everyone’s horrified attention is focused on.

The baby’s hand-carved cradle is tipped over. Blood is splattered across the cradle wood, the marble floor, and the mosquito netting. The body of little Scamandrius, also lovingly known as Astyanax, not quite one year old, lies on the floor—hacked to pieces. The baby’s head is missing. The arms and legs have been lopped off. One pudgy little hand remains attached, but the other has been severed at the wrist. The baby’s royal swaddling clothes, with Hector’s family crest so delicately embroidered on the breast, is sodden with blood. Nearby lies the body of the wet nurse I’d seen on the battlements and sleeping here peacefully just one night ago. It looks as if she’s been mauled by some huge jungle cat, her dead arms still extended toward the overturned cradle as if she died attempting to protect the infant.

Servants are wailing and screaming in the background, but Andromache is speaking, her voice stunned but almost frighteningly calm. “It was the goddesses, Athena and Aphrodite, who did this, my lord and husband.”

Hector looks up and his face under his helmet is a terrible mask of shock and horror. His mouth hangs open, spittle dangling. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed. “Athena? Aphrodite? How can this be?”

“I came to the door from my chamber just an hour ago when I heard them talking to the nurse,” says Andromache. “Pallas Athena herself said to me that this sacrifice of our beloved Scamandrius is the will of Zeus. ‘A yearling heifer for sacrifice slaughter’ is the phrase the goddess used. I tried to argue, weeping, begging, but goddess Aphrodite willed me into silence, saying that Zeus’s will on this shall not be denied. Aphrodite said that the gods were ill pleased with the way of the war and with your failure to burn the black ships last night. And that they would take this sacrifice as warning.” She gestures to the butchered child on the floor. “I sent the fleetest servants to recall you from the battlefield, and called these women, my friends, to see me through my grief until you arrived, O Husband. We have not reentered this room until you came.”

Hector turns his wild face on us, but his gaze passes right over the silent Achilles. I don’t think he would have seen a cobra at his feet this moment. He’s blind with shock. All he can see is Scamandrius’ corpse—headless, bloodied, one little fist closed. Then Hector chokes out, “Andromache, wife, beloved, why aren’t you dead on the floor next to the nurse, fallen likewise in an attempt to save our child from the wrath of the immortals?”

Andromache lowers her face and weeps silently. “Athena kept me at the doorway behind an invisible wall of force while their divine power did this deed,” she says, tears falling on the bodice of her gown. I see now that her gown is bloodied where she must have knelt and hugged to her the remains of her slaughtered child. Irrelevant as it is right now, I think of watching television and seeing Jackie Kennedy on that distant day in November when I was a teenager.

Hector does not move to hug or console his wife. The servants’ wailings rise in pitch, but Hector remains silent a minute until he raises his scarred and muscled arm, closes a mighty fist, and snarls at the ceiling, “Then I defy you gods! From this moment on, Athena, Aphrodite, Zeus—all those gods I’ve served and honored, even to my life all these years—thou art my enemy.” He shakes his fist.

“Hector,” says Achilles.

Every head turns. Servants wail in terror. Helen throws her hands to her mouth in a perfect simulation of surprise. Hecuba screams.

Hector pulls his sword free and snarls with an expression almost resembling relief.
Here is someone to vent my fury on. Here is someone to kill.
I can read his thoughts on his face.

Achilles holds both palms up. “Hector, brother in grief. I come here today to share your grief and to offer you my right arm in battle.”

Hector has tensed to rush the man-killer but now the Trojan hero freezes, his face turning into a mask of confusion.

“Last night,” says Achilles, his callused palms still raised to show his empty hands, “Pallas Athena came to my tent in the Myrmidon encampment and killed my dearest friend—Patroclus dead by her hand—his body taken to Olympos to be fed to the carrion birds there.”

Still holding his sword, Hector says, “You saw this?”

“I spoke to her and witnessed it myself,” says Achilles. “It was the goddess. She cut down Patroclus then just as she has your son today—and for the same reasons. She told me these herself.”

Hector looks down at his sword hand as if his weapon and his arm have betrayed him.

Achilles strides forward. The crowd of women parts for him. The Achaean man-killer extends his right hand so that it is almost touching the tip of Hector’s sword.

“Noble Hector, enemy, brother in blood,” Achilles says softly, “will you join me in this new battle we must fight to avenge our loss?”

Hector drops his sword so that the bronze echoes on the marble floor, its hilt ending up in a pool of Scamandrius’ blood. The Trojan cannot speak. He steps forward almost as if attacking, but then grips Achilles’ forearm fiercely—if it had been my arm, he would have torn it off—and continues gripping the other man’s arm as if hanging on to keep from falling.

All through this, I confess, I keep flicking my gaze to Andromache, still weeping silently, even while the other faces register more shock and amazement.

You did this
? I think at Hector’s wife.
You did this to your own son to get your way on this war?

Even as I think of it, stepping further back from Andromache in revulsion, I know it was the only way. The only way. But then I look down at the butchered remnants of Astyanax, “Lord of the City,” the murdered Scamandrius, and I take another step back. If I live to be a thousand years old, ten thousand, I will never understand these people.

At that instant, the real goddess Athena, accompanied by my Muse and the god Apollo, QT into the empty half of the nursery.

“What is happening here?” demands Pallas Athena, eight feet tall and arrogant in posture, tone, and gaze.

The Muse points to me. “There he is!” she cries.

Apollo draws his silver bow.

46

Caliban’s lair was dark and moist and warm, hidden as it was amidst the old pipes and septic system beneath the city’s surface, the grotto warmed to tropical temperatures by biotic decay and populated with scuttling eft-things and pompion plants. Caliban cracked thin ice, swam through a pipe in the asteroid’s soil, emerged into a long, narrow grotto, hung his netful of captives by a hook, slashed the net, set the three stunned and unresisting humans on three rocks ten feet above a bubbling pool, and stretched out on a licheny pipe overgrown with ferns. The creature kicked both feet in the slush, and propped his chin on his huge clenched fists to inspect Savi, Harman, and Daeman.

Daeman had pissed himself when the monster seized them. The thermskin absorbed the moisture and dried itself almost immediately, leaving no stain, but his cheeks reddened even through his terror when he thought of it.

There was air in Caliban’s lair, and more gravity than in the city proper, and the creature ripped off their osmosis masks so quickly, his long arm striking forward so rapidly and clawed fingers grasping with such speed that none of the three, even the last, had time to duck or back away. Their rocks rose like slimy columns above the black pool. The air around them smelled foul and thick and sewage-rich. Caliban breathed it in as if it were ambrosial, showing his yellow smile from time to time as if to taunt them. Part of the fishy smell in the grotto came from the creature itself.

Daeman had thought the
calibani
in the Mediterranean Basin were scary, but knew now that they were shadowy duplicates of the awfulness of this real and original Caliban, if that’s what this thing was. This creature was no larger than the
calibani,
but was infinitely more obscene in all his toothed and testicled fleshiness. At first glance Caliban seemed ungainly, almost clumsy, but he’d swum through the cold, thin air of the dead city easily enough, using his huge webbed feet and webbed hands as effective paddles. He’d gripped the gathered end of their net in his oversized mouth, the sharp teeth there holding it fast even as Savi, Harman, and Daeman struggled and kicked against the net.

“What do you want with us?” demanded Savi as the three of them were perched on their stones above the underground pond and Caliban lay studying them. Daeman could see that she’d retrieved the gun that had fallen into the net with them and that it was in her hand, but it wasn’t aimed.
Shoot it!
Daeman thought at the old woman.
Kill this thing!

Caliban, sprawled close enough above their stone columns that his breath washed over them, redolent with the same decay as the air itself, hissed, “He creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard. And now a flower drops with a bee inside, and now a fruit to snap at, catch, and crunch.”

“He’s crazy,” whispered Harman over their radio link.

Caliban smiled. “He talks to his own self, howe’er he please, touching that other, whom his dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha, could He but know! And time to vex is now.”

“Who is ‘He’?” asked Savi. Her voice was very calm for someone in a stinking grotto and at the mercy of a beast. “Are you speaking of yourself in the third person, Caliban?”

“He is He,” whispered the monster, prone on his mossy pipe, “except when He is Setebos!” At the mention of the name, Caliban sprawled lower, spraddled and splay-footed, putting his arms over his head as if ready to ward off a blow from above. Something small and scaly scuttled and splashed in the fetid pond below them. Yellow vapors rose around them all.

“Who is Setebos?” asked Harman, obviously working to keep his voice as calm as Savi’s. “Is Setebos your master? Will you go get him for us so he can let us go? We’ll talk with him.”

Caliban raised his head, scraped the pipe with his claws fore and aft, and barked at the roof of the grotto. “Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! Thinketh, He dwelleth i’ the cold o’ the moon.”

“The moon?” said Savi. “This Setebos of yours lives on the moon?”

“Thinketh, He made it, with the sun to match,” purred the creature. “But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.”

“What is he talking about?” whispered Daeman to Savi on the suit comms. “Is he mad? It sounds like he’s talking about some god.”

“I think he is talking about a god,” Savi whispered back. “His god. Or something real that he views as a god.”

“Who or what created this monster? No God, certainly,” whispered Daeman.

Caliban’s odd, translucent ears twitched and raised at this. “Thinketh, Sycorax, my mother made me, mortal morsel. Thinketh, Prospero, the silent servant of the Quiet, made Himself servant to the servant. Thinketh, though, that Setebos, the many-handed as a cuttlefish, who, making Himself feared through what He does, looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar to what is quiet and happy in life, but makes this bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those as hips do grapes.”

“This bauble-world,” repeated Savi. “Do you mean the asteroid city here on the e-ring, Caliban?”

Instead of responding, Caliban crawled forward like a scaled cat ready to pounce, his yellow eyes only a yard from their heads. “Thinketh, Himself, do they know Prosper?”

“I know Ariel, the biosphere entity,” said Savi. “Ariel gave us pass to Atlantis and to travel here. It’s all right for us to be here. Ask Ariel.”

Caliban laughed and rolled onto his back, only his claws and webbed feet keeping him from rolling off the slick pipe into the fetid water below. “Thinketh, Himself as Prosper, keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; also a sea beast, lumpish, which he snared, blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, and split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge in a hole o’ the rock and calls him . . .
Caliban
.”

“What the
hell
is he talking about?” demanded Daeman on the commline. “The thing is mad. Shoot it, Savi. Shoot it.”

“I think I . . . may . . . understand,” whispered Harman. “Himself is Caliban. He does speak of himself in the third person, Savi. Your logosphere Prospero enslaved him somehow and used Ariel, the biosphere persona, to do it.”

“And Caliban blinded some little sea beast, maybe a lizard like those in the pool below, and called it Caliban,” said Savi. Her voice was odd—distant, almost bemused—as if the yellow-eyed thing reclining and stretching in front of them had mesmerized her. “He plays at being his master, Prospero,” she said softly.

Caliban laughed and scratched his side. Daeman could see gills there, opening and closing like obscene gray mouths above his ribs and just below his armpits. “Himself, peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books careless and lofty, lord now of the isle,” hissed Caliban. “Vexed, stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, has peeled a wand and called it by a name; weareth at whiles for an enchanter’s robe the eyed skin of a supple oncelot.”

“Oncelot?” said Harman.

“Shoot it, Savi,” hissed Daeman. “Shoot it now before it kills us.”

“Caliban,” said Savi, voice soothing, “what happened to the post-humans here?”

Caliban began to weep. Mucus ran from his muzzle. “Setebos,” he whispered, looking again toward the roof of the grotto as if someone was listening. “Setebos bid me to give these mankins three sound legs for one, or pluck the other off, and leave them like an egg. Were this no pleasure, mind me mortal, hunting posties one by one, drinking the mash to wash down their flesh, with brain become alive, making and marring clay at will. So He.
So He!
”

“Oh, my God,” breathed Savi. She slumped back on her high, rough stone. It looked as if she was considering leaping to the foul pool below.

“What?” whispered Daeman on the comm. “What?”

“Caliban did kill the post-humans,” whispered the old woman. She seemed older now in this sewer light. “On this Setebos’ command. Or perhaps Prospero’s. Caliban seems to worship both as gods. Perhaps there is no Setebos, only his worship of the Prospero persona.”

The creature quit snuffling and brightened up, his wide mouth-flap rising. “Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord.”

“Who is?” asked Savi. “Setebos or Prospero? Whom do you serve, Caliban?”

“Saith He is terrible,” roared Caliban, rising on his hind legs now. “Watch his feats in proof! One hurricane will spoil six good months’ hope. He hath a spite against me, that I know.”

“Who has a spite against you?” asked Harman.

Daeman thought it was insane to try to talk to this insane creature. “
Shoot it,
” he whispered again to Savi. “
Kill the thing.
”

Savi raised the gun a little higher but still did not aim it.

“Thinketh, Himself, that the posties brought wormholes, Setebos brought the worms,” said Caliban. “Prospero made maggots into gods, and Setebos made stone into Prosper’s face, and zeks to place him well. My dam said the Quiet made all things which Setebos vexed only, but then, Himself observes, who made them weak when weakness meant weakness He might vex? Had He meant other, while His hand was in, why not make horny eyes, like Caliban’s, which no thorn could prick? Or plate their scalps with bone against the snow, like thus, or overscale their flesh ‘neath joint and joint like an orc’s armor? Aye—spoil His sport! He is the One now: only He doth all.”

“Who is the one?” asked Savi.

Caliban looked as if he was going to weep again. “My blinded beast loves whoso places fleshmeat on his nose. It pleases Setebos thus, to work, use all His hands.”

“Caliban,” Savi said softly, slowly, as if to a child, “we’re tired and want to go home. Can you help us go home?”

The monster’s eyes seemed to focus on something other than his hate and self-hate now. “Aye, Lady, Caliban knows the way and wishes you well. But you and Himself both know His ways and must not play Him off, sure of the issue.”

“Tell us how . . .” began Savi.

“Doth the like himself,” said Caliban, growing more agitated now, crouching on his hind legs, his long forearms hanging down, thorned knuckles scraping moss from pipe. “There is the sport; discover how or die! Please Him and hinder this? What Prosper does? Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!”

“Caliban, if you take us home, we can . . .” began Savi. She’d raised the gun a bit.

“All need to die,” shouted Caliban, tensing his thighs and scraping his knuckles. “Thinketh, Himself, Prosper brings crafty Odysseus here, but Setebos makes him wander. Prosper sends night cries to Jove in the skies, bringing the hollow men to Mars, but Setebos sets it right with false gods’ rage. There is the sport; discover how or die!”

Caliban hopped to the end of the pipe, girdled the pipe with his legs, swung low, and scooped an albino lizard from the ooze. The lizard’s eyes had been gouged out.

“Savi,” said Harman.

“All need not die, no,” cried Caliban, weeping and gnashing his teeth. “Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; those at His mercy—why, they please Him most when . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice!”

“Shoot it, Savi,” said Daeman loudly, not on the commline, but speaking clearly, his voice echoing in the grotto.

Savi bit her lip but raised the weapon.

“Lo!” cried Caliban. “Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip.”

Caliban released the blind lizard, which leaped for the pond below but struck Savi’s rock on its way to the water.

“Watch His feats in proof!” cried Caliban and leaped.

Savi fired and several hundred barbed, crystal flechettes struck Caliban in the chest, rending flesh like paper. Caliban howled again, landed on Savi’s rock, wrapped the old woman in his impossibly long arms, and bit through her neck with one powerful snap of his jaws. Savi didn’t even have time to scream before she was dead, neck almost severed, body gone limp in the monster’s arms, gun falling from lifeless fingers to the swamp below and disappearing.

Pouring blood himself, Caliban raised his bloodied jaws and yellow eyes to the grotto walls and howled again. Then, carrying Savi’s corpse under one long arm, the monster dived to the bubbling water below and disappeared beneath the scum.