“Of course,” said Cornelia, and she walked directly into the man’s arms, her arms slipping softly about his body, and offered her mouth to his.
They kissed, passionately, the kiss of a man and a woman well used to each other, and Brutus found his hands were clenched at his side. Then Cornelia and her lover slid to the floor, and, with a sigh of complete contentment, the man mounted her.
“No!” Brutus shouted, and would have stepped forward and grabbed at the man now moving over Cornelia with long, powerful strokes save that he found himself unable to move.
He could witness, but he could not interfere.
The lovers’ tempo and passion intensified, and Cornelia moaned and twisted, encouraging her lover in every way she could, and they kissed again, their bodies now so completely entwined, so completely merged, that they seemed but one.
Then the man’s form changed, blurring slightly. He was grunting now, almost animalistic, and for the first time Brutus saw that Cornelia had her hands on the man’s shoulders as if to push him off.
She cried out, and it was the sound of pain, not passion.
Brutus still could not move, and he watched in horror as the man’s form blurred again, and became something horrible and violent.
A man, yes, with a thick, muscled body, but impossibly, with the head of a bull.
The creature tipped back its head and roared, and both Cornelia and Brutus screamed at the same moment.
The creature’s movements became violent, murderous, and Brutus saw that he was using his body as a weapon.
There was blood now, smearing across Cornelia’s belly and flanks, and her head was tipped back, her face screwed up in agony, and her fists beat a useless tattoo across the creature’s back and shoulders.
“Cornelia! Cornelia!” Brutus screamed, and for once both Cornelia and the creature heard him, and both turned their faces to him, and the creature roared once more, and Brutus knew who it was.
Asterion. Cornelia had invited evil incarnate to ride her.
He woke, violently, jerking into a sitting position in their bed, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and staring.
Beside him Cornelia had sat up as well, and was asking him what was the matter.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Eventually she did, but Brutus sat there the night through, awake. All he could see, all he could hear, was the sound of Cornelia’s voice as she welcomed her lover.
One evening, Cornelia accosted him on the verandah of Corineus’ house. Brutus was exhausted—he’d spent the greater part of the day helping a team of men wrestle a new mast into position on one of the ships—and the very last thing he felt like was a confrontation with his wife.
“Brutus?”
“Hmm?” he said, hoping the lack of interest in his voice and his closed eyes as he leaned back in his chair would send her away.
“Blangan says I am within a few weeks of birth. Brutus…I do not want to give birth on ship. Can we not delay our departure until I’ve had our child?”
It was the first time he’d ever heard her refer to the child within her as “our child”. It was enough to make him open his eyes and study her.
She certainly looked as if she would drop the child soon. Her belly was huge, her ankles swollen and her face drawn with its weight.
“Blangan says,” Cornelia continued, “that the baby has not moved in the womb as it should.” She laid a hand on her belly, just under her ribs. “His head is here, tucked beneath my heart, and it should be—”
“I do not want to hear a midwifely discourse,” he said. “It is not my concern.” Despite her current condition, all Brutus could see was her face as she welcomed her dark lover, and her body as it writhed ecstatically under his.
“Is there no pity in you that you cannot grant me this small concession?” she said softly. “Blangan says it will be a difficult birth.”
And so now she called on his “pity”. Had she considered his “pity” when she arranged her assignation with her lover? Brutus’ small reservoir of patience ran entirely empty.
“Any other man,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “would have had you executed after your treachery in Mesopotama. Any other man would have thrown you overboard with your sulks and petulances. Any other man,” he straightened in his chair, “would have cast you aside for your constant whining about that pathetic boy you think is better than I, or your even more pathetic chasings after Corineus. Who next, Cornelia? Who next will you lust after?”
“I do not dream of Melanthus. Nor ‘chase’ after Corineus.”
He leaned forward, and seized her wrist. “Then of whom do you dream at night, my lovely? Not of me, for you stiffen in revulsion if I so much as breathe near you.”
She blushed, and he had all the answer he needed.
“I dream of Llangarlia,” she said softly.
He stared at her. “Of a stone hall in Llangarlia?”
She did not speak, but the faint, guilty flush in her cheeks deepened, and Brutus had all the answer that he needed.
“Bah!” Disgusted, he let go her wrist. “Listen to me, I can no more delay the departure of this fleet than I could delay the rising of the sun. Locrinia is ready to slide into the bay, and the autumn storms already gather on the northern horizon. We must reach our destination before they whip the seas into something infinitely more dangerous than what we endured within the Pillars of Hercules. Frankly, my dear, I don’t care where you give birth, whether it is in a rowboat or in the greatest silken bed in the known world, so long as you deliver that son to me alive and healthy.”
Her face had now drained of all its colour, and Brutus again felt a moment of guilt, and then a surge of renewed anger at the fact that she so constantly called that guilt into being.
“I don’t care where you give birth,” he said again. “I care for that as little as I care for you. Just give me my son, for I care nothing for you!”
As Cornelia made her way back into the house, her hand held to her face in what Brutus thought was a truly pathetic attempt to foster his sympathy, he thought again of Membricus’ vision. Cornelia would die in childbirth.
“Gods,” Brutus muttered, “I hope Membricus saw aright!”
He would prefer Cornelia dead than alive and betraying him.
For a long time Brutus sat there in the dark, thinking of the visions of death that surrounded Cornelia.
And Asterion. Asterion! Brutus remembered that first night he had taken Cornelia, how she had asked him, “Are you Asterion?”
Had she been expecting him, even then?
Hades’ daughter.
Brutus shuddered.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They sailed on a bright, late summer morning three days after Brutus had spoken with Cornelia.
The citizens of Locrinia, grateful (if sad) to be leaving their condemned city, had stowed both their belongings and themselves aboard whatever vessels they could find; those several hundred who could not be fitted aboard the Locrinian fishing, merchant and warships Brutus managed to find space for on his own vessels. It would be a crowd, but from what Corineus and other Locrinian captains told him, with luck it would only be a short voyage of under ten days to reach the island of Albion where lay Llangarlia.
It would need to be under that space of time, Brutus thought the morning of their final departure, as the autumn storms were very close upon them.
But this day was fine. The waters of the bay, thronged with black-hulled vessels of every shape and size, glittered under the warm sun. Every ship had jewel-coloured pennants fluttering from their masts and stem posts, and along every side of every hull oars lifted, waiting for the cries of the orderers. On their decks, and packed into their hulls, brightly clothed men, women and children shouted and waved to friends and relatives in neighbouring ships.
Autumn storms notwithstanding, Brutus knew they were leaving just in time. In the past several weeks more and more of Locrinia had been col
lapsing: this past week alone had witnessed the final destruction of over fifty homes. They had not even needed the rains to arrive to come down. The cracks had spread further and further every day so that, by the time the Locrinians had boarded, there remained only about half of the city habitable.
And even that, Brutus thought, would crumble into the sea within weeks of their departure.
He’d managed to put into the back of his mind the resemblance of the cracks here to those which had swept through Mesopotama. Coincidence only. Every town or city occasionally suffered the deprivations of earth surges. Locrinia had just been unlucky in the strength of the one which had struck her.
“When we have gone, the city will vanish,” Corineus said softly at Brutus’ side, and Brutus turned to stare at him.
Corineus was staring at the city, tears in his eyes. “It has been my beloved home,” he said. “No matter towards what glory we might sail, Brutus, this has been my home. When it is gone the forests and grasses will creep in, and within two or three generations no one will ever know what pride and happiness existed here.”
“All things must pass,” Brutus said, hating the lameness of his reply.
“Aye,” said Corineus turning away, “all things must pass.”
Brutus put his back to the all-but-ruined city himself, and looked at the fleet.
For the first time, Brutus truly felt the weight of responsibility settle upon his shoulders. He now commanded a fleet containing some twelve thousand souls, all of whom had placed their trust in Brutus to lead them to a better life. Not only would he need to command them through uncertain waters to their destination, but he would then need to negotiate with the Llangarlians for land on which to build Troia Nova.
None of it would be easy…
Cornelia’s voice, murmuring to Aethylla about the ache in her back, broke across his thoughts, and Brutus sighed ruefully.
Not easy at all.
He sailed this time on Corineus’ warship rather than his own. It was more commodious than his warship, fully decked above the oar benches, and had enough cabin accommodation for Corineus, Blangan, Brutus, Cornelia and Aethylla, and her husband and child, and Membricus, Hicetaon and Deimas, who would share the smallest of the cabins.
Brutus drew in a deep breath, and nodded to Corineus, who raised his arm in a prearranged signal.
Instantly trumpets sounded from a score of ships, and a great shout rose from those who were crowded into the ships’ hulls.
The orderers raised their voices and as one sang the beat, and at the sound of the beat all the oars of the one hundred and eighteen vessels in the fleet dipped into the sea.
They were on their way.
The fleet sailed north for five days, following the line of the coast to their starboard.
The weather favoured them, and every dawn and dusk Brutus gave thanks to Artemis for her favour. The ships made good headway, people stayed cheerful—indeed, often the day was filled with the sound of singing as voices passed ballads and choruses between ships—and it seemed as if Poseidon himself had sent the great companies of dolphins which danced and dipped in the surging waters under the fleet’s stem posts.
The peace and fair sailing lasted only a few short days. At dawn on the sixth day out from Locrinia Cornelia went into labour.
He’d been in a deep sleep, lulled by the caressing motion of the ship into dreams of a white city rising on the banks of a noble river, when Cornelia had suddenly cried out.
Brutus leapt to his feet, clutching at his sword, before he realised he was not under attack at all, and that the cry had come from Cornelia, now sitting amid their blankets clutching at her belly.
Aethylla, who had been sleeping a few paces away, her own baby nestled safely in a cot by her side, groaned and rolled over, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Aethylla?” Brutus said, hoping the woman might have some magical words to utter that might restrict Cornelia to a more dignified moaning.
Aethylla made a face and slowly rose, tugging a gown about her as she did so. She squatted down by Cornelia, and put her hands on Cornelia’s belly.
She grunted. “It is the baby.”
“It hurts,” Cornelia whispered, then howled as another contraction gripped her.
“It is nothing more than all women bear!” Aethylla snapped. “If you think this hurts, then wait until this evening!”
Brutus decided he’d heard enough, and, snatching at the tunic and cloak he’d taken to wearing in these cooler northern climes, beat a hasty retreat to the deck.
Aethylla could cope with Cornelia.
Aethylla did not have to bear the burden alone. Blangan joined her within moments of Brutus vacating the cabin, and two other women, experienced midwives, joined them shortly thereafter. These four women had knowledge of childbirth both personally and through aiding scores of other women to give birth.
But their aid was of little use to Cornelia. She was a young girl, still growing herself and, as Blangan had realised, the baby had not moved about in the womb as it should so that it could be born head first. Instead, it was a breech presentation, and no matter how much Cornelia laboured, the child would not shift. Caught in the terror of the unknown, gripped by horrific pain, Cornelia descended into panic. Even Blangan, who had by now earned Cornelia’s trust and regard, could do nothing to calm her. One of the midwives could have turned the baby within the womb, but Cornelia was too far lost in her panic and terror to allow any of them to touch her.
Brutus, standing as far away from the cabin as he possibly could, nevertheless heard every shriek, every groan. It tore on his nerves, driving him to distraction.
Membricus and Deimas stood with him, offering as much sympathy and support as they could; Corineus paced up and down the deck of the ship, alternately looking from the cabin to Brutus, his expression worried.
Worried for what? Brutus thought. That he might lose Cornelia? But she should be nothing but just a woman to him; there was no reason for him to evidence such concern.
“All women scream during labour,” Deimas offered hopefully as Brutus continued to watch Corineus pace up and down. “It helps them to expel the baby. Cornelia will be well, have no doubt.”
Brutus caught Membricus’ eye, and did not answer.
“Did you not say this would be a son?” Deimas said, trying frantically to find something cheerful to say. Cornelia’s wails were echoing down the entire ship, setting children to crying, and the adults to much muttering and rolling of eyes.
Soon queries were being shouted from other ships, concerned at the racket emanating from Corineus’ vessel, and Brutus grew heartily tired of having to shout back that it was just his wife, giving birth.
In the mid-afternoon, when not only Brutus’ nerves, but those of everyone else on board, had been frayed to breaking point, Aethylla emerged from the cabin.
She caught sight of Brutus at the stem post of the ship, and marched resolutely towards him.
“Is the child born?” asked Brutus.
“I wish to the gods it were,” Aethylla said, “but it lies wrong in the womb…and Cornelia will not let any of us try to turn it. By the gods, I have never seen such a performance. Is this how all Dorian princesses give birth?”
Corineus had walked over. “Blangan told me that the baby sits the wrong way.”
“Yes, yes,” said Aethylla, “but there is no reason why it should not be born save that its mother does not co-operate.”
“She is frightened,” said Corineus, and Brutus saw that the man’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Aethylla.
“Frightened!” Aethylla said, and rolled her eyes. “She has insulted us, as well as you—”
“We have all heard,” said Membricus, much enjoying himself.
“—and every god whose name she can remember. She pinches and slaps.” Aethylla omitted to mention that she was the only recipient of these pinches and slaps after she had herself dealt Cornelia a particularly stinging s
mack, accompanied by some harsh words about how childish Cornelia was for making so much fuss. “If this child ever manages to be born I swear to Artemis it will be born running in its effort to get away from its mother.”
She took a deep breath, during which time none of the men said anything.
“Now,” Aethylla finally continued, “now she demands that she will not give birth unless it be on land. She says,” Aethylla spat every word, “that the motion of the ship disturbs her and makes her ill and takes her mind from the task at hand. She says she will die rather than give birth aboard this ship.”
Brutus swore, badly enough to make even Aethylla look at him with startled eyes. “Is she dying?” he asked.
Aethylla hesitated, then: “No. She is a strong, healthy girl. She should still be able to birth this baby even though it lies uncomfortably.”
Corineus cursed under his breath, then turned to say something to Brutus, but Membricus spoke quickly, and in a smooth, unctuous voice, placing his hand on Brutus’ arm.
“Perhaps it will be a kindness to find some peasantish hovel on the coast where she can push this child out, my friend. It might be for the best, after all. For all of us.”
Brutus knew what Membricus was saying: Let the vision fulfil its course. Let her give birth in this unknown peasant hut, and let that unknown hand slice her in two as soon as your son slides from her body. It would be for the best.
Cornelia wailed again, then her voice broke, and descended into a heart-wrenching sobbing.
“For the gods’ sakes, Brutus,” Corineus snapped, “she is your wife! Do something, anything, but remember that she is your wife!”
Brutus shot him an unreadable look. My wife, Corineus, indeed, he thought, then nodded.
“As she wants, then. As she wants.” He strode down the deck, paused briefly outside its entrance, then stepped through the door into Cornelia’s birthing chamber.
She was standing against its far wall, her naked body drenched in sweat, her hands clasped about her belly, her loose hair matted and damp, her eyes wild and staring, her mouth twisting into the ugliest line Brutus had ever seen.