Deimas was not sure what kind of magic Brutus had worked, but it was proving cruelly effective. All about him Dorians swayed in hopeless efforts to free their feet from the stone paving which held them fast.
Deimas even saw one man, one of Cornelia’s hired swords by the look of him, so desperate that he held his sword up high, then swung it down in a frightful arc, cutting through both his legs at the ankles.
He roared in agony, falling over and dropping his sword, but almost immediately tried to struggle forward, dragging himself by his hands. His efforts were useless. As soon as he had fallen, his hip had sunk into the stone paving, and he was stuck as fast as previously. The man’s roar turned into a horrific, high-pitched squeal as he fought against the grip of the stone, his lower legs spraying blood over whoever came within three paces of him.
As Deimas watched, one hand still buried in the shoulder of Cornelia’s gown, the man thankfully lost consciousness, and Trojans, seeking whichever was the quickest way forward, stepped uncaring over him.
Then a woman cried out, and pointed, and Deimas jerked his eyes in the direction the woman indicated.
To his right, and perhaps some eight or nine paces before him, stood the wall of a substantial house. It rose windowless and smooth some twelve paces into the air. Yet now its smoothness had been adulterated, for cracks spread from the ground upwards, like fast-flowing rivulets of water.
The cracks were as wide as the palm of a man’s hand, and they were filled with grey, as if all the smoke that had disappeared from the sky had been drawn into their depths.
There were several more shouts, and Deimas jerked his gaze about him. Cracks were spreading up every wall he could see.
The city was disintegrating.
To his left, Cornelia gave another lurch, trying to escape him, still crying for her father.
“Curse you, Cornelia!” Deimas cried out, his fear and frustration combining into a fury that gave him enough strength to pull her struggling body close and to deliver her a stinging slap across her cheek.
She reeled away from him—and would have fallen save that Deimas still had tight hold of her gown—one of her hands to her reddened cheek.
“Come,” Deimas said, and pulled her forward at a stumbling and, thankfully for the moment, unresisting trot down the street.
Every few paces they had to dodge another Dorian man or woman or even, horribly, a child mired in the stone. Without exception the trapped Dorians twisted and turned, tried frantically to escape, their faces ravaged with despair, their hands held out for aid from those streaming past them.
None helped them.
Every so often Deimas glanced at Cornelia, and saw that her face was white (save for that cheek), and her eyes wide and appalled.
He hoped she felt some measure of guilt.
They managed to travel relatively unimpeded through the city to a point only some hundred paces from the gate. Around them the buildings were crisscrossed with wide cracks that seethed with grey; the buildings groaned, and some of them trembled, as if they knew their doom was upon them.
Deimas, although still anxious, was beginning to foster some small hope that he and Cornelia, and all other Trojans about them, were close to escape when, suddenly, Cornelia once more lunged to the side, managing to finally pull herself from Deimas’ grasp.
Cursing, he pushed through the crowds of escaping Trojans about him to see her standing by what at first he thought was a statue attached to one of the buildings.
Then he realised Cornelia’s hands were twisted in her hair, and she was screaming, and that the statue was no statue at all, but Pandrasus, more than half fused into the wall of a building.
Cornelia cried out, and reached for her father, but just before she touched him, Deimas lunged forward and grabbed her, managing to pull her back from him.
“You witless girl,” he cried. “Touch him and you risk being dragged into that wall as well.”
Pandrasus, his eyes wide and staring, was straining one of his arms towards his daughter writhing and sobbing within the circle of Deimas’ arms, but his arm was caught fast from elbow to shoulder, and all Pandrasus could do was waggle his hand helplessly at his daughter.
He tried to speak, but all that issued from his mouth was a moan…
…and dust, as if the mortar from the wall embedded in his back had been forced out his throat in his desperate efforts to speak.
“He is dead, Cornelia. Leave him,” Deimas said.
“Father,” she sobbed, reaching out to him again, and Deimas had to wrap both his arms tightly about her and physically wrench her away.
“Deimas!”
He swivelled his eyes in the direction of the shout and felt a surge of relief.
Brutus and Membricus were pushing through the crowd towards them.
“I can’t get her away from her father,” he said, as the two men reached him.
Both Brutus and Membricus stared at Pandrasus, still straining hopelessly towards his daughter, then at Cornelia, who gave no sign that she realised her husband was at her side.
Membricus’ gaze went from father to daughter. “How is it she can still walk?” he said.
“Her child is Trojan,” Brutus said, “and her legs are needed to carry it from this tomb. That is all that has saved her. Deimas, give her to Membricus and myself. We can drag her away, and you look exhausted.”
Deimas exhaled gratefully as Brutus managed to take Cornelia from him.
She struggled, still weeping, her arms still outstretched towards her father.
Brutus tightened his hold on his wife, and Membricus grabbed her wrists, but she struggled violently against them, kicking out with her feet, and started a high-pitched keening, as if that could break their hold even if her physical efforts were in vain.
She managed to free one of her hands, and hit Membricus a heavy blow on his head.
“Foolish child,” Brutus seethed, and tightened his hold so much she gave a shriek of pain. “Do you see your father there, mired in the stone? Do you see your fellow Dorians, dying in the streets? Do you understand, can you understand, that their deaths are on your conscience? Can you? If you had let all be, if you had merely allowed my people to walk out those gates and sail away, none of this would have been necessary. You are death incarnate, Cornelia. It stains your soul.”
High atop her sacred hill, Genvissa bared her breasts to the sun, tipped back her head, and ran the flower lightly across her nipples.
She shuddered, then sighed, content, even though Brutus had not allowed that damned bloated wife of his to die within the crumbling mausoleum that was her home.
Never mind. Cornelia would always wait for another time (definitely before she had time to bear that ugly little son she was brewing) and the most important thing had come to pass. Brutus had passed the test. He was strong enough to manage the Game. What he could destroy, he could also build.
All was well.
All was very, very well indeed.
Genvissa closed her eyes against the sun’s warmth, and once more traced the flower over her nipples.
A world away to the east, Asterion sat within the dark heart he had constructed for himself. The horn-handled knife was in his hands now, and he turned it slowly over and over as he thought.
Perhaps there would be enjoyment in his eventual triumph. The world had not gone entirely to fools after all. Despite himself, Asterion was as impressed as Genvissa by Brutus’ skill: he would make a fine adversary.
But, as with everyone else Asterion faced, the man had a weakness; a weakness that would eventually prove Asterion’s strength. The man’s power derived largely from his kingship bands—Asterion was sure of it—and the kingship bands of Troy were very powerful. Possibly the most powerful ever crafted.
Power that Asterion could use.
“But only once you are dead, my friend,” Asterion said. “Then I shall take great pleasure in tearing those bands from your cold, grey limbs and…”
A
nd?
“And placing them about my own,” Asterion whispered, his mind racing as it encountered a possibility he’d never thought of previously. He had been planning to use the Game’s one fatal weakness to destroy it completely…but why should he?
Asterion’s belly contracted in a sudden, almost sexual, flare of excitement. The Game was powerful beyond belief. Better he control and wield that power than destroy it.
Once Genvissa was brought under control…and once he had those kingship bands.
Asterion’s eyes narrowed and the knife fell still in his hands as cunning consumed his mind.
Part Three
London, March 1939
Skelton walked very slowly towards Genvissa, unable to sort out the confusion of emotions within him at the sight of her.
“My,” she said as he stopped a pace away, “that uniform suits you well, Brutus. What are we now? A captain? A lieutenant?”
“A major,” he said. “Jack Skelton.”
She smiled. “A major. And an American. Always the foreigner, eh?”
He studied her, taking his time about it. She was, as always, a few years older than himself, but she looked tired now, and worn out. Desperate. Yet still that magnificent black hair curled about her face, barely restrained by the clip at the base of her neck. Still her seductiveness shone forth, even cloaked as it was by her heavy, green woollen coat. Still her beauty radiated, touching him deep within.
“Look,” she said, pointing with a gloved hand to where the Thames curved away south before them. “Does this embankment not remind you of that beach where first I came to you?”
“I have not come to lose myself in memories, Genvissa…ah, dear God, what name do you go by this time?”
“Stella,” she said. “Stella Wentworth.”
“And the others?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t play your games with me. I’m tired of them. Where are the others?”
She looked to the dome of St Paul’s. “You can find Loth in there,” her mouth twisted cynically, “wearing the cloth. I find that quite amusing.”
“And…?”
“And…? Oh, do you mean Cornelia?”
“Where is she?”
Stella shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Dammit, Genvissa… Stella. You must know—”
“I do not! If she is here, then I have not yet discovered her.”
Skelton stared at her, wanting to shake the truth out of her, but knowing it would do no good. “Does Asterion have her, Stella? Does he have her, as well?”
CHAPTER ONE
CORNELIA SPEAKS
If you had let all be, if you had merely allowed my people to walk out those gates and sail away, none of this would have been necessary! You are death incarnate, Cornelia. It stains your soul. I knew it, I knew it, and hearing it said so baldly and cruelly added no more pain to the guilt that was already coursing through me.
Oh, Hera, if only I had let it be, if only I had not pestered my father into asking the king of Nichoria for aid, if only…
All I had wanted was revenge for myself, my father, and Melanthus, and a return to the life I’d had.
What I had accomplished was the murder of my entire people.
Why had it gone so badly, when the unknown goddess had said it would all work so well?
Brutus’ arm tightened even more painfully about my midriff and he dragged me through the streets of my home. I did not resist, nor protest, and made all the proper movements with my legs that were needed to propel me forward. But my mind was back with my father, mired in the stone with him, enduring his agony.
Ah, that is foolish! A girlish stupidity. How could I “endure”, even imagine, the agony my father must have gone through in his dying? How can I know what it feels like to have my back and legs and arm swallowed by stone? To have my bowels and lungs and brain surrender to rock? To take a breath and then to have it caught, unable to draw more…and yet all the while remain aware of my suffering and dying?
No, I cannot imagine that, even though it was all that consumed my mind as Brutus hauled me along streets choked with my people’s struggling bodies, and littered with the debris of collapsing buildings. Fleeing Trojans buffeted us from all directions, but I felt not their bruises, nor heard their cries to hurry, hurry!
All I saw was my father, his hand held out to me in mute appeal, his eyes agonised.
I wish I had suffered with him. I wish the stone had swallowed me, too, but it did not. It did not because of this burden I carried in my belly, this Trojan child.
Isn’t that what Brutus had said?
I did not understand it, and for the moment I did not want to even try. All I wanted to do was die to escape my overwhelming guilt, and yet I knew that Brutus would not allow that…all for the sake of this child.
I heard him, eventually, gasp something to his friend Membricus. His voice held immeasurable relief, and it stirred me enough to look around. We were beyond the gates now, on the road that led between the rows of vines towards the bay. Fleeing Trojans still crowded us, but their efforts were less now that they were free of the city.
Brutus stopped, again spoke to Membricus, and then turned about—me with him, still clasped tight in his arms—to stare back at Mesopotama.
“Look,” he said, and then again, more forcefully: “Look!”
I raised my head, and I moaned and would have fallen, had not Brutus still held me so tight.
Mesopotama was crumbling. It appeared as if an indistinct grey cloud hung over it—it might have been the dust from the collapsing masonry, but somehow I knew it was something far more vile and evil—and under the weight of that noxious cloud the city was collapsing into itself. Towers imploded, tenement buildings tumbled, palaces slid ignominiously into gutters, and the city walls turned to the consistency of sodden pastry and merely folded in upon themselves in resignation.
“The evil swallows it,” Membricus said.
What evil? I thought, but did not dare ask.
What evil had my husband conjured?
All of my initial terror of Brutus, which had faded away over the past months, now returned to me a hundredfold. I had once feared Brutus as a murderer and a rapist; now I feared him as a sorcerer. Oh, Hera, Hera, had he known all along what I planned, and let me continue, just so I could damn myself?
How could I have been so foolish? How could I ever have thought to best him?
How could I so callously have gambled with the lives of everyone I loved?
And lost?
“Did all our people escape?” Brutus asked Membricus, and I shuddered in his arms.
“Aye,” Membricus replied. “All those not murdered by the swordsmen’s initial attack. The last groups ran out the gate well before the final destruction.”
Brutus breathed deeply, held in some consuming emotion—I could feel it course through his body where it pressed against mine.
“And now,” he said. “Troy.”
I closed my eyes. His dreams lived, mine were dead. As we stood there, his strong arms holding me tight against his body, I watched Mesopotama fall into ruin, knowing that somewhere in there my father—perhaps still aware and screaming with his mind—was being finally entombed by the stone.
Melanthus…my father…Antigonus…all my people. All gone. Everything I had loved was gone.
The child stirred within me, and I began to cry with deep racking sobs.
Trojans thronged the shoreline as they waited to board the ships lying at anchor some fifty paces out in the bay. A score of rafts ferried them out in groups of thirty or more.
The mood was calm, some people even managed to laugh, while the sun shone overhead, its heat alleviated by a cooling northerly breeze.
I found it strange that the world continued as if little of consequence had passed.
Undoubtedly sick of my weeping, Brutus handed me into the care of a broad-faced woman with a child slung in a blanket over her back. He told me her name
was Aethylla, and that she would watch over me for the time being. It was, I think, the final humiliation: he thought so little of me—whether as a wife or as an enemy—that this simple peasant woman sufficed to either comfort me or guard me.
At that moment I suddenly remembered Tavia. Tavia! Tavia was entombed in Mesopotama’s destruction.
Ignoring Aethylla, who was watching me with ill-concealed disdain, I sank to the sandy ground and buried my face in my hands, my shoulders heaving with the renewed strength of my wretchedness. Tavia was gone, consumed with everything else I loved, and never again would she curl up with me in my bed, and sing me to sleep.
Aethylla sighed, stroked my brow and said numerous things which I suppose she thought might be comforting.
Her efforts made me sob all the harder. Stop it! I wanted to tell her. Go away! I wanted to shout at her, but none of these phrases came to my lips. Instead I sat there in the sand, my legs sprawled most ungracefully, my belly bulging between them, my robe half ruined, its hem rumpled somewhere about my thighs, and I cried like a child.
Aethylla eventually sat beside me, and held me, and soothed me and when I had calmed down somewhat, wiped my nose with the hem of my robe, sat back a little and lifted the child from her back.
I was vaguely aware that it had been crying for a little while, itself.
Aethylla smiled at me conspiratorially as if we were somehow made sisters by the shared fact of our maternity, and cuddled the child to her. She pulled aside the bodice of her robe, and offered her breast to the baby.
Its mouth latched on to Aethylla’s nipple like a starving dog snatches at meat, and I winced, instantly vowing to find a wet nurse for this load within me.
She saw me frowning.
“Do not think the feeding of a child is a burden,” she said. “There is no sensation a woman loves more than the feel of her child at her breast.”