Hades' Daughter

  It could be a trap…but…

  “Signal the other ships to follow us in,” Brutus said, “but signal also that the archers are to stand ready, should we have need of them. We need to land somewhere, at some time…and I can see no sweeter place than this. We have to risk it.”

  “Do we land here, on one of these sandy beaches?” Hicetaon said.

  “I think not. None of them are large enough to allow for the size of our fleet, nor for the numbers of our peoples. There is no place here to establish an easy camp for twelve thousand. Besides, this bay is still too open to the sea. If a storm should blow in then the ships would be dashed against the rocks. We follow the river, and see what we may see.”

  Slowly, single file, the black-hulled ships of the Trojan fleet sailed into the mouth of the estuary and up the river. On either side reared the steep wooded hills; now and again, among the trees close to the waterline, the Trojans caught a glimpse of deer or hare, and even once of several slow-blinking wild sows standing at the water with their piglets watching the gradual progression of oared ship after oared ship pass up the channel.

  Corineus’ vessel led the file, Brutus standing alert close to the stem post. His eyes continually moved between the two shorelines, looking for signs of human habitation—or human ambush.

  Once they’d left the wide bay at the mouth of the estuary, and moved into the river, Cornelia came to stand with him.

  “Achates?” Brutus said, glancing at her.

  “Aethylla is feeding him,” Cornelia said, her eyes on the passing hills.

  Brutus opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and merely nodded instead.

  “This is a mysterious land,” Cornelia said after a few minutes.

  “You said it was green earlier.”

  She shrugged. “It is green and mysterious. What lives in those woods, do you think, Brutus?”

  “Deer, hare, birds, wild boar. All the creatures woods harbour.”

  “But what else? There is surely something else in these woods…”

  Brutus looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

  Cornelia took a moment to reply, staring into the forested slopes to either side of the river as if she looked for something…or someone.

  Eventually she shrugged, giving a small embarrassed smile. “I don’t know. Maybe my thoughts remain muddled from Achates’ birth. Forgive me, Brutus.”

  He smiled himself, very gentle. “I will allow you a few muddled thoughts in return for the gift of Achates. It is not a heavy price.”

  He reached out a hand, and after a small hesitation, she took it. “I have been impossibly foolish, Brutus, and my thoughts and hopes mired in the past. We have a marriage to make, you and I, and I think…I know I would very much like to make the best of it that I can.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “As you said, perhaps we should make the best of our doom. Perhaps—”

  “Perhaps,” he said, making the effort to respond to her effort, “we can even make something good of it.”

  One of her tears spilled over, and he lifted his other hand and wiped it away with his thumb, gently, almost caressingly.

  “We have wasted too much time,” he said softly.

  For two turns of the river the landscape remained unchanging: steep, rolling and closely wooded hills, sometimes plunging to the water’s edge in cliffs, sometimes easing down more gently to small sandy beaches.

  Nowhere, thus far, was there a good place to land such a large fleet.

  As the leading ship rounded the third turn, Brutus suddenly swore, and let go Cornelia’s hand, pushing her none too gently away from the stem post.

  Cornelia, who’d been about to protest, scrambled even further back when she saw what it was that had grabbed Brutus’ attention.

  On the north side of the river there was a small valley created by a merrily tumbling stream, and at the point where the valley flattened out to join the river stood a moderately sized village surrounded by well-cultivated fields and orchards. The village was unwalled or fortified—which surprised Brutus—and consisted of some twenty or twenty-five circular huts made from logs, stone, daub and thatch.

  People were running from the huts, standing to stare at the ship as it came about the bend, then turning on their heels to race deeper into the village where a larger and well-fortified round house stood on higher ground.

  Corineus and Hicetaon had joined Brutus. Behind them the Trojans crammed into the ship muttered and pointed as the villagers continued to rush for the safety of the large round house.

  “What do we do?” asked Corineus.

  “Nothing,” said Brutus. “They will see soon enough that we have an army of ships following…they will not risk an attack.”

  “And if they warn others of our presence?”

  Brutus shrugged. “There is not much we can do about that save protect and fortify our eventual camp as best we can. We will have to meet these people sooner or later, Corineus. We can’t hide forever.”

  “They are well clothed,” remarked Hicetaon. “Even from this distance I can see their tunics and robes are woven with fine patterns. And look—they have herds of sheep and goats.”

  “Only a few of them carry weapons of any note,” said Brutus. “These are not an aggressive people.”

  From among the scurrying villagers walked forth one woman. She was old, but not ancient, with long, greying brown hair and a thin, weary face. She wore no mark of leadership, but somehow exuded an aura of power that made her stand out from her villagers as no torc or golden band could.

  As she watched them, standing close to the shoreline, she laid a hand to her belly and looked directly at Brutus, as if she knew who he was, then her eyes slid momentarily to where Cornelia stood several paces away from Brutus.

  When her eyes came back to him, Brutus raised a hand over his head and very slowly waved it back and forth several times, then pointed upriver.

  We greet you, and mean you no harm. We continue forwards.

  The woman stared, then, very slowly, lifted one open-palmed hand to shoulder height, acknowledging the message.

  “I wonder how many more villages we will pass?” Corineus murmured.

  Two more, as it turned out, before they approached a site Brutus thought suitable for landing.

  In similar fashion to the first village, the people of the next two villages tended to panic at first sight of the ships, then they would slow and stare as they—and their headwoman—realised the foreigners meant no harm.

  Not yet, at least.

  None of them moved to attack, and Brutus dared to hope that his Trojans would remain unmolested.

  At noon the leading Trojan ship moved around a bend in the river—although still wide, the main channel of the river was now growing considerably shallower and Brutus knew they’d need a suitable site before long—and found the landscape flattening to flowery meadows on either side of the riverbanks, the woods sparser, and, on the northern bank, a very large and relatively clear meadow surrounded by marshes and tidal mud flats.

  Behind the clear area rose a hill topped with a rocky outcrop. The riverside flank had a gradual incline, but on every other side the hill fell away steeply.

  It would be a good defensive location: with all the Trojan men to hand, and all the wood surrounding them, Brutus knew he could build a wooden palisade within a week. It wouldn’t be large enough to contain all the Trojan camp sites…but with luck it would be large enough for them to huddle within should there be need for protection.

  He turned about slowly on the deck, studying the surrounding landscape.

  It was good. The site itself was large, relatively level, high enough to escape any tidal fluctuations in the river level, and with a covering vegetation that would soon be cleared away for a camp site. There was a stream…no, three streams emptying into the river at a close distance. The woods in the nearby hills were full of game. There were too many trees close to where Brutus wanted a camp set up, a potential hiding pl
ace for attackers, but again the thousands of able-bodied men could clear those within a day or two.

  And the riverbank at the foot of the clearing was wide and broad enough for a score of ships to unload at the same time.

  It was unlikely that he could find a better spot in time for them to disembark before nightfall.

  He nodded, smiled at Corineus and Hicetaon. “This is the place,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Disembarkation took many hours, and it was not completed until very late that night. Oarsmen manoeuvred ship after ship to the beach where strong men waited with ropes to haul them partway on to the sand. They were helped by a good high tide, and by a sharp drop into the river so that the ships found it easy to move to the beach. Partly weary, partly wary, shipload after shipload of people clambered down to the dry land, hauling out their possessions, carrying struggling sheep and goats and children, and standing, once landed, to stare about at this land to which Brutus had brought them.

  Brutus’ first task was to establish a secure perimeter about the landing area and the hill that rose behind it. The first several hundred people to disembark were warriors, swords drawn, fanning out to scout the woods that not only surrounded the landing site and the hill, but the bank on the other side of the river as well.

  Brutus wanted no surprises.

  Once he was certain the immediate area was secure, Brutus and his immediate sub-commanders—Corineus, Hicetaon, Assaracus and Deimas—took on the task of establishing a camp for the night, no easy task for some twelve thousand people. At best they could hope for campfires and enough space to allow everyone to stretch out; over the next few days everyone would have to work as hard as possible to build temporary shelters.

  As people milled, bustled, shouted, laughed and, occasionally, wept in the doing of their tasks, Brutus climbed to the top of the hill while it was still light. It was a broad-based hill, very high, its almost-level crown large enough for a moderate-sized fortress, and it commanded a good view of the surrounding countryside.

  From the river the landscape had seemed to be composed of endless undulating and densely-wooded hills and from his vantage point atop the hill Brutus could see that the wooded hills extended for many miles in every direction. There were small patches of open land where diseased trees had fallen, but generally the forests looked almost impenetrable. In the very far west, however, Brutus saw that the hills levelled out into flat and mostly unwooded plains. Looking back towards the coast he could see a few twists of smoke rising from the riverside villages they’d passed, but there were no smoke trails rising from anywhere further inland. Brutus guessed that, unless word had spread about his fleet and fires had been doused, the only villages in the immediate area were on the river itself where transport was possible.

  There were very obviously no large towns or fortresses within several days’ march at the least.

  For the time being they were relatively safe.

  Hicetaon joined him on the hilltop, puffing a bit after the steep climb, and for a few minutes they studied the landscape together, discussing what they would need to accomplish in order to build a secure camp site for the Trojans.

  “And if this is not to be Troia Nova,” Hicetaon said, “what shall it be, then? What name will you give to this first Trojan settlement in the new land?”

  Brutus gave a short laugh, caught by surprise. He thought a moment, then grabbed a knife from his belt and leaned down to a patch of damp moss-covered rock. He scraped industriously for a few minutes, then stood back to admire his handiwork:

  Here I stand and here I rest. This place shall be called Totnes.

  “Totnes?” Hicetaon said.

  Brutus grinned. “When I was a toddler and still suckling at the breast of my nurse, she used to sing over me that I would be a great king and go to lands far distant. ‘Tis only fair I name this first landing spot after her—Totnes. Besides, the shape of this hill reminds me most particularly of her full breasts.”

  Hicetaon roared with laughter, then sobered as he looked back to where another group of black-hulled ships were drawing up one by one to the landing beach. “All these years I travelled and fought with you, Brutus, I have never doubted that you were a capable and great man. But to see this, to see our fellow Trojans—so many thousands of them—brought out of misery and slavery to a new land to rebuild their pride…well…I have never realised how great you truly were.”

  “The fighting is not yet done, my friend. If the Llangarlians refuse to accept us then the worst battle of all may yet be before us.”

  Yet even as he said the words, Brutus was certain they were not true. She would have prepared the ground for their arrival.

  By the time fires were lit and had roared back to cooking coals, and bands of hunters had returned with carcass after carcass of plump deer from the woods, it was near midnight, and people had only enough energy left to huddle by the nearest fire and eat what was handed out to them.

  Brutus made sure that the ring of surrounding warriors were fed, and that others would relieve them after a few hours, before he sank down beside Cornelia, Aethylla—nursing both her own son and Brutus’ on different breasts—and Corineus who sat among a group of some thirty people around one of the fires. Everyone looked exhausted, and much of the food lay uneaten. Already over half of the people about the fire were asleep.

  Cornelia reached out a hand and briefly touched Achates’ soft downy cheek, then looked to her husband who was finally managing to eat some food.

  “What do we do?” she said, then waved a hand vaguely about. “Is this where we stay?”

  “For the time being,” Brutus said about a mouthful of barely cooked venison, “but not permanently. We stay here, we rest, we regain our strength and while we do that, I seek out this MagaLlan and negotiate with her our permanent settlement.”

  “And the Gormagog,” Corineus said, yawning. “Don’t forget Blangan said that the various Houses of Llangarlia deferred to two people, the Gormagog and the MagaLlan.”

  “Where is Blangan?” Brutus said, suddenly realising she wasn’t in the group of people about this fire, nor any of the nearby fires.

  Corineus nodded at the hill. “She said she wanted to see more of her homeland than just the nearby trees.”

  Brutus put down what remained of his hunk of venison, and sighed. “I need to speak with her,” he said, and rose, his tired muscles and joints audibly creaking.

  “You’re exhausted,” Cornelia said, seizing his hand. “Rest first, surely.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze, then let it go. “No. Blangan knows more than anyone the inherent dangers of this land. I need to speak with her before I sleep…or else I shall not sleep.”

  She turned as he approached, and he saw that she had been weeping.

  “We need to speak candidly, Blangan,” Brutus said as he came to a halt by her side. “I have twelve thousand people to protect, and I have known since I first saw you that you were terrified of returning to Llangarlia. What is wrong? Why are you not overjoyed at coming back to your homeland?”

  He dropped down to sit at her side. “Blangan, no more evasions. Answer my question. Should I fear, too?”

  She turned her face away from him, back to the rolling forested hills. “Not as much as I.” She paused, thinking, then came to a decision. “I have been brought home to be killed, Brutus.”

  “What?”

  “Let me tell you in my own way, and to fill in some of the gaps in my story. What did Corineus tell you about me…that I left this land when I was fourteen, married to a merchant who died within six months, leaving me stranded in Locrinia where Corineus, the beloved man, offered me marriage?”

  “Aye. And you told me later that you were forced into leaving this land. Why, Blangan? Why did they force you to leave?”

  She sighed. “Because it suited them—”

  “Who are these ‘them’?”

  “My mother, Herron, who was the MagaLlan twenty-five years ago, and
my father Aerne, who was the Gormagog. Maybe just my mother…I am not sure.

  “I come from the most powerful House within Llangarlia, Brutus. The House of Mag. My mother was the MagaLlan, and I was conceived as her eldest daughter during the midsummer fertility rites. My father was the Gormagog. I was not my mother’s heir, for that role would belong to my youngest sister…” She glanced at Brutus, wondering if he would remember what she’d told him of Llangarlian society during his time staying in her house in Locrinia.

  “I understand. The heir to the Mother of any House is her youngest daughter, born of the wisdom of her maturity rather than the naivety and thoughtlessness of her youth. The younger is always considered the more capable and powerful child.” He paused. “Your youngest sister, your mother Herron’s heir, is Genvissa.”

  “Ah, yes, Genvissa. She was only some eight or nine years old when my son was born, and while I can accuse her of much, I cannot accuse her of any complicity in my downfall. No, wait, Brutus, do not interrupt just here. I will talk more on Genvissa later.”

  Blangan paused to take a deep breath, then continued.

  “When I reached womanhood at thirteen I already had a younger sister, so I knew I would never be my mother’s heir. But as her first daughter to reach womanhood, I nevertheless had certain responsibilities. The most important of those was to conceive a child within my thirteenth year. This did not trouble me. I longed for my own child, and as I had been bleeding at the change of the moon for the previous eight moons, I knew I was physically capable of conceiving. It was just that…it was just that my mother, Herron, the MagaLlan, overrode my own choice of father for that child. She determined that I should conceive of a child by the Gormagog himself.”

  “Your own father? That is allowed?”

  “Under normal circumstances, no. But between the Gormagog and a daughter of the MagaLlan?” She shrugged again. “I protested, but my protests were ignored. Both the MagaLlan and the Gormagog were insistent. They said my child would be special. Powerful.” She hesitated. “The Gormagog came to my bed one night, and there, despite my protests, he lay with me.”