Hades Daughter (46 page)

He was still gaping when he realised that the warriors were returning, and with them walked a man who Coel instantly realised was not only this people’s leader, but a man who wielded god-power.

Coel stiffened a little, and he felt both Bladud and Jago shuffle in their discomfort.

The man continued to walk towards them, his face devoid of any expression. He moved with the strength and grace of a hardened warrior, and the gleaming bands of gold about his legs and arms gave him an almost supernatural glow; if nothing else, they told Coel that the man was a king of some standing. He had very long, curly black hair tied at the base of his neck, and wore a fine linen tunic of ivory with a belt of woven gold and silver threads about his waist.

He was unarmed, not wearing even a knife for his food.

The man came to a halt two paces away from Coel, regarding him with as much care and curiosity as Coel knew he studied him.

“You have a fine cloak to hang over your equally fine tunic,” said the man in quite reasonable if highly accentuated Llangarlian, and Coel jumped in surprise—he had expected to communicate with this stranger by means of hand signals and significant looks.

One among Coel’s escort of warriors handed Coel’s sword to this man, and he turned it over in his hands slowly as he examined it.

“And your sword,” the man continued, “is far better crafted than any I have ever wielded. Are you the Gormagog himself, come to greet me?”

He turned slightly, handing the sword back to one of his men.

Despite all his caution, Coel’s face dropped in shock.
He knew of the Gormagog?
Great Og, what else did he know?

Clearly amused at Coel’s reaction, the man raised a black eyebrow, waiting for a response.

Then the man said, smiling as Coel continued answerless, “I, as you see,” he held his arms out, “have come unarmed.”

“Save for your knowledge,” said Coel, and stepped forward, holding out both his hands. “I am Coel, son of Erith. I am not the Gormagog, although I am here at the behest of both him and the MagaLlan, and with their authority.”

Brutus took Coel’s hands in his and gripped them tightly. “I am Brutus, son of Silvius, son of Ascanius, son of Aeneas, son of Aphrodite.”

They dropped their hands, the ritual greeting done, and it was apparent that Coel was clearly unimpressed with Brutus’ lineage. “You come from a line of
men
?” He patently did not know—or was under-awed—that Brutus had dropped in the name of a powerful goddess as the founder of his line.

Brutus tried not to smile. No doubt this man, who let his House Mother nag him at his hearth, found the idea of a house of men astounding. He nodded. “In my heritage,” he said, “a family’s name and honour is handed from father to son.”

Coel shook his head, then said, “My companions are Bladud and Jago,” adding their House affiliations, “and we have brought with us flasks of our honey wine, that we might greet you properly. Is there—?”

“Somewhere to rest, and to sit and talk among all this crowd?” said Brutus. “Aye, I think I can find somewhere.” He turned to his men, and continued to speak in Llangarlian, telling Coel that not only he but all his warriors spoke the language. “Hand back to our visitors their swords. Take their horses and water and feed them well.”

The men nodded and, after Coel, Jago and Bladud had retrieved their swords and the flasks of wine that had hung behind their saddles, Brutus led them towards the hill.

After they had reached its rocky summit, Coel and his companions spent a long moment studying the crowds below them, and the seeming infinity of black ships that were either moored in the shallows of the river or drawn up on the foreshore.

When he finally turned to Brutus, Coel’s eyes were bleak. “What do you here, with so many women and children and flocks of animals?” he said. He knew very well why the Trojans were here, but he wondered if Brutus would prevaricate.

“I will not lie to you,” Brutus said, standing easy with one foot resting on a small rock before him. “We come here to make a home. We are Trojans, vagabonds for these past ninety-eight years. Now we will make our home.”

“
Why here?
” Coel’s voice had a hard edge to it, and Brutus could not blame him for that.

“The great Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt, has directed us here.”

“This is the land of Og and Mag,” Coel said, both voice and eyes now flat. “Your ‘huntress’ will have no place within our forests and fens.”

“Is that what your MagaLlan and Gormagog told you to tell me?” Brutus said softly, holding Coel’s stare.

Coel held Brutus’ gaze for a few more heartbeats, then dropped his eyes to the flask he held in his hand, and managed a small, and not altogether unnatural, smile. “We have brought the welcoming wine,” he said. “Will you sit and share it with us, while I pass on the message I have for you?”

Slowly, very slowly, he raised his dark, deep eyes back to Brutus.

For no reason at all, Coel’s movement and expression made Brutus recall Blangan’s words about her undoubted death.

There was something here, a power, that was unknown to him, and Brutus knew that wariness and temperance would do more for his cause than any untoward display of arrogance and incaution. There was something
behind
Coel, something powerful, and Brutus knew better than to tempt it forth now.

He needed to win for himself a kingdom among these people, and he would do it the more easily by listening than by shouting.

He nodded. “The sun is warm here, and I fancy that your wine will be more than welcome.” He glanced to his left as footsteps sounded, and Hicetaon and Corineus joined the group of four men atop the hill.

Coel instinctively tensed, then relaxed as he saw that the two older men wore no weapons apart from small eating knives. The older man, bald and muscular and with a deep wound scabbed on one side of his head, was clearly a warrior, while the thinner-faced man looked more the intellectual than soldier.

Brutus introduced them to Coel, Bladud and Jago, and motioned everyone to sit down.

Coel unstoppered his flask of wine and took a long draught himself (
See, this wine is not poisoned
) before passing it to Brutus.

“Drink,” Coel said, “of the welcoming wine, and as you do, I will speak the words I have carried so far south with me.”

Brutus drank, managing to swallow without grimacing. The flask contained a rich, honeyed liquid, far sweeter than the wines Brutus was used to, and he gave Corineus a warning glance as he handed it to him.

Brutus hoped this land was warm enough to grow vines, because he didn’t think he wanted to get too used to this syrupy draught.

Coel cleared his throat, and when he began to speak, it was with the melodious rhythmic voice of a poet, so
beautiful that Brutus had no doubt he could win any woman he wanted to into his bed.

“Greetings, Brutus, heir of Troy,” he said. “We wish you health and life. We also wish you to know that we understand why you are here, and for what purpose—to rebuild Troy, on these our meadows and forests.”

Brutus’ face remained impassive, but those words confirmed what he had suspected for weeks: Artemis had never once come to him. Only Genvissa, in a guise he would trust.

By the gods,
he thought,
she has so much power!

“We know your longing for a home,” Coel continued, “and for Troy so long dead, but we also need you to understand that your purpose causes our people and our gods great dismay. But rather than dismiss you, and ask you to leave—”

Despite himself, Brutus couldn’t resist a smile at that. “Dismiss him” indeed. Genvissa had a fine sense of humour to complement her power.

“—we ask instead that you and a small band of your companions travel to the heartland of Llangarlia there to meet with us, and to see if our mutual fears and needs can be accommodated.” Coel’s voice slipped back to normal. “These are the words of the MagaLlan and the Gormagog combined, united as the living representatives of the gods, and the unified voice of the people.”

“They want me to travel to the Veiled Hills?” Brutus said, and saw Coel’s composure slip at the mention of Llangarlia’s sacred heartland.

“Yes,” said Coel, reasoning that most of Brutus’ knowledge must have come from Blangan, the traitorous bitch. He looked weary now, as if his delivery of the message had come at the expense of his own strength.

“Just myself and a small band of my companions? What reassurance do I have that we will not be killed?”

Coel, in his turn, managed a wry smile. “What guarantee do
we
have that you will not set your tens of thousands against us?”

All humour dropped from Brutus’ face. “We have a mere few thousand warriors,” he said. “The rest of my people are wives and children, the elderly, and untrained youth. As an ‘invading force’ we are severely hampered by those we need to protect. We defend, we do not attack. And we are
not
‘tens of thousands’.”

“You are more than we could ever hope to assemble in one place,” said Coel softly.

There was a cold silence as both groups of men stared at each other.

“Perhaps I may suggest a compromise?” Corineus said eventually.

Eyes swivelled in his direction.

“If Brutus and his companions travel into Llangarlia’s heartland, not knowing what they may find, or how they will be received,” Corineus said, “then perhaps a small band of Llangarlians of similar standing should enjoy our Trojan hospitality here within Totnes camp.”

“Reciprocal hostages,” said Hicetaon, always blunt and to the point.

Brutus raised his eyebrows at Coel. “Your younger companion, Jago, can surely escort us to the Veiled Hills. Will you stay here, with Bladud?”

“You will need me to escort you through the territories between here and the Veiled Hills,” Coel responded. “Only my name and word can get you through. But your companion Corineus has suggested a good compromise. Although I cannot offer my family to dwell among you—they dwell close to the Veiled Hills, and it would take weeks to send word and then for them to travel down to the Dart River—may I suggest asking the three Mothers of the three villages close to this location? As Mothers of their Houses and
villages, they are greatly revered. No one would ever risk their lives, most certainly
not
either the Gormagog or the MagaLlan. If these three Mothers agree, then, Brutus, will you and your immediate companions, as well as
your
wives and children, accompany me back to the Veiled Hills? If we both risk our most valued and honoured, then both surely will rest assured that peace will be maintained.”

Brutus exchanged glances with Corineus and Hicetaon, then nodded. “I agree.”

I
continued to be enthralled by this new land. I, who once had never thought to be enthralled by anything save a new jacket or a bauble thrown my way by my father. Yet here I was, with an infant in my arms I had thought to loathe, a husband I had thought was little more than a brutish goat, not a single remaining remnant of my Mesopotaman finery, living in an overcrowded camp that was growing muddier by the day, and I was so enjoying myself anyone would have thought me born in a meadow.

Achates was a great joy, but I must admit that lying next to Brutus at night made me wonder when I would heal enough to make love with him again. Once the thought of bedding with my husband had caused me physical revulsion and mental torture; now I found myself daydreaming about it as I had once daydreamed about Melanthus. Over the past few weeks I had become more and more aware of his…well, of his desirability. It had begun that night at the Altars of the Philistines where I had run my hands through his hair, felt his tongue graze mine, and had continued ever since. I had noticed how other women watched him as well, had noticed his magnetism, had realised that they looked at me with envy underlining their contempt.

And, of course, there was the dream of the stone hall with the sweeping green hills and silver river of
Llangarlia beyond; the sense of waiting for a great love to arrive; the daughter I could see playing from the corner of my eye. It came upon me with ever-increasing frequency now, and each night that it came, it was more vivid, more real.

So I daydreamed of Brutus constantly through the hustle and bustle of the river camp. In this state of mind I no longer resented Aethylla for her ability to feed Achates where I could not; instead, I was relieved that Achates’ hungry mouth did not prevent the rapid firming of both my breasts and belly back to a gentle roundness.

I could barely wait for my body to heal completely.

So, with my baby in my arms, my body springing back to a much appreciated slenderness, and my eyes occasionally wandering after my husband as he undertook the governance of this bustling camp, I turned my curiosity to this land.

It was so beautiful (
just like my vision from the stone hall
) that sometimes contemplation of it left me in silent tears. The country was not only unusual in its greenness, and the very exuberance of that green, but also in its soft light and comforting coolness. My own land, my girlhood home, had been clear and bright and harsh, the foliage more grey, the sun bolder. Here, tiny flowers that could never have survived Mesopotama’s hard light thrived in shallow crevices of rock and flowered in great ebullient carpets where the soil was deeper. The trees had the thickest of canopies, stunningly clothed in the reds and golds and russets of their autumn finery. I spent many an hour while Achates slept in my arms watching their seductive dancing against the sky.

Thus it was that when Brutus announced that I would accompany himself, Corineus, Blangan, Hicetaon and several others on a journey north to the Veiled Hills, I was filled with excitement. The fact that
I was being taken as a virtual hostage against the Trojans’ misbehaviour, as Corineus explained to me, did not concern me in the least. There was travel and excitement ahead, a chance to draw a little closer to Brutus, and Aethylla to look after Achates’ needs.