Brutus nodded, satisfied, and lifted the sword away from his wife’s body as he had failed to lift it from that of the boy she’d loved.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CORNELIA SPEAKS
Once my father had declared Brutus my husband (and what choice had he? Hold his tongue, and watch me die?), Brutus had taken the sword from my breast, dropped my head so suddenly I fell to the floor, and wiped my blood from his blade in my hair before sheathing it.
Tavia, who’d been watching distraught from the walls of the megaron, rushed to my side and aided me to my feet. She carried a light cloak, which she’d snatched from someone else, and she threw it about my shoulders before hastening me away (Brutus sent guards after us, as would come naturally to such a savage), taking me to my chamber, where she cleansed and dressed the wounds underneath my breast. They were stingingly painful, but they were not deep enough to require stitches, and so once she had cleaned them Tavia gently rubbed an unguent over them, and kissed my brow, as if I were a child, and as if that single kiss would make better all the grief and shock and humiliation of the past day.
Having attended my wounds and my heart as best she could, Tavia then sat with me in my chamber. We waited together all day, waiting for…well, I am not sure for what we waited. We merely sat, holding hands tightly, jumping at every sudden noise. Every so often there would be the sound of running feet in the corridors, and shouts, and once a scream, no doubt of some hapless woman being raped. The streets were similarly frenzied, filled from time to time with screams and shouts and noises which I did not care to clearly identify. By the evening, however, both the palace and the city streets beyond had quietened.
Eventually, of course, Brutus remembered me.
As night fell he came to this chamber, and ordered Tavia out. Servants fell to his bidding (I could not begrudge them their terrified willingness) and arrayed the low table by the window with food and fine wines.
He asked me to sit with him (I was by this time standing in the furthest corner of my chamber) and, when I refused with a mute shake of my head, dragged me with a hard, repulsive hand to the chair by the low table of food.
So we sat, watching each other wordlessly, the table standing between us.
Of course, so much more stood between us.
He watched me with an air of slight puzzlement combined with amused speculation. He wore nothing but a somewhat sweat-stained gold and scarlet waistcloth and what, even at this moment, I recognised as exquisitely worked golden bands about his tightly muscled limbs. Used only to the soft, slim bodies of courtiers—and the beautiful fineness of my beloved Melanthus—I found his warrior musculature and sun-browned skin displeasing, almost ostentatious. He was physically suited to guard duty, perhaps, to the receiving of orders, not to sitting here before me, so relaxed and confident, as if he had…as if he had the right.
He continued to watch me with measured deliberation, and I stared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away, my apparent calmness hiding a tumultuous cauldron of emotions. I was humiliated, angry, terrified, shocked, grief-stricken and guilty, and of all these, the guilt was the worst.
If only I had not so thoughtlessly sent my father “a-hunting” after this Brutus. If I had thought, and been more circumspect, if I had begged my father to listen to the prudent wisdom of Sarpedon, would Melanthus still be alive? Would my father still be laughing, proud and strong, in his megaron? Would my fellow Mesopotamans not be subject to the brutality and rape I was sure was being enacted in every house within the city as this man, this Brutus, and I sat in silence, staring at each other?
My guilt was too terrible to bear, and so I used it to fan my outrage and anger. Who was this man, this piece of filth, to so humiliate myself and my father? Who was he to so carelessly murder Melanthus?
Who was he who had so completely destroyed my life?
In a moment of horror I remembered my vision of Hera.
She had tried to warn me, and I had forgotten it.
I swallowed, almost totally consumed with guilt now, and, horribly, he saw it.
“Eat,” he said, and I shook my head in a single, jerky motion.
He bent forward, picked up an apple, then leaned back in his chair and considered me as he bit into the fruit. The sound of his teeth sinking into the crispness of the apple was shocking in the otherwise silent chamber, the steadiness of his eyes as they regarded me alarming, and the juice of the apple as it trickled down his stubbled chin made my mouth and throat dry out in sheer terror.
For some reason, it reminded me that this man had declared himself my husband, and if now he was here in my chamber, then there was a good reason for that.
My hands clenched together in my lap, and I concentrated on my anger. If he knew of my terror, then he had surely won.
As he finished the apple, he signalled a servant standing by the door, and the man came running.
“I would bathe,” Brutus said. “Fill the tub, if you please.”
The servant scurried away, and Brutus slurped the last of his wine, banging the empty cup on the table.
Oh, Hera, I hated him! Everything about him repulsed me. His barely clothed body, his sweat, his blunt, unattractive Trojan features, his stable-yard manners, his sheer, damned, confidence.
“What is your name?”
My mouth dropped open. He didn’t know my name? He had taken me as wife, he had murdered my lover, he had humiliated my entire world, and he didn’t know my name? It was, I think, the ultimate insult, and at that moment my anger won out over all my other emotions.
He raised his eyebrows, no doubt thinking he was being patient.
I compressed my lips, refusing to speak.
He sighed. “I have a wife, but I do not know her name.” He shrugged, his dark eyes very still. “What shall I call her then, when I cry out in my passion?”
Furious, my entire face flaming, I refused to answer. I could not believe this brute thought he was going to bed me. He was a Trojan, for Hera’s sake. He could not possibly think that he could…that he could…
He smiled. It gentled his face, and I turned my eyes from him, not wanting to fall for such trickery.
“I am sorry for what has happened,” he said. “You must be scared.”
“I am not,” I said, stung finally to speech. “I am a princess, a daughter of Mesopotama, and a Dorian of proud lineage. I do not ‘scare’.”
He managed to suppress a smile. “Please, tell me your name.”
I hesitated, then because he might construe my continued refusal to tell him as childish, I finally relented. “I am Cornelia.”
“Cornelia.” He tried it out in his mouth. “It is a strange name, and not beautiful enough for you.”
“It is a proud name!”
“For a proud and most indignant girl,” he said, the laughter escaping now, and I was so enraged I would have leaned the distance between us and slapped him had not a bevy of servants filled the room with their scurrying and pails of hot water to fill the bath.
Once they had done, and scented the water and laid out the best of our towels, he nodded a dismissal, and they left us.
I, too, rose to my feet, meaning to follow them, but he rose as swiftly as a striking snake and caught at my wrist.
He was a head taller than I, and I found myself hating him for that.
He twisted my wrist, just very slightly, enough to make me take a step closer to him. “Stay,” he said, “and aid your husband in his bath.”
“You are not my husband,” I spat. “I refuse you! Melanthus will be my—”
I stopped, suddenly remembering that Melanthus was dead, and that he would never be my husband. Unbidden, childish tears sprang to my eyes, and I hated it that this man standing so close to me would see them and would know the reason for them.
“Melanthus,” he said slowly. “Melanthus…that was the name of the boy whose throat I slit. Antigonus’ young son.”
I sobbed, and tried to twist my wri
st free from his grasp.
It did not budge.
“You loved him?” he said.
“He was honourable, and beautiful, and noble. All the things you are not! He,” I allowed my eyes to sweep down Brutus’ form contemptuously, “did not stink.”
“And I do not whimper and piss myself in childish terror,” he said very softly, and I knew I had at last nettled him. “Do you think that he would be a more deserving husband for you than I?”
“Always!” I hissed.
“I am the only one you have,” he said. “Stink or not, I am the only husband you have.”
And with that he grabbed me to him, and made as if he would kiss me.
I hit his face as hard as I could with my free hand. “No,” I hissed. “I have vowed my mouth to Melanthus alone. If he can no longer kiss me, then no man shall. Let me go. Let me go, you…you…” I struggled against him, even more furious because I could find no word vile enough for him. “You goat!”
“Then I never will lay my mouth to yours,” he said, in a voice so low and vibrating with fury that I could not help but tremble. “Never! So long as we live, no matter how much you beg me. But see what I can do to you, what rights I shall take for myself.”
He lifted me, even though I beat at his shoulders with my fists, and carried me to the bed.
As he bore me down against the mattress, I kicked and scratched at him, shrieking, hoping that the sound would bring the servants scurrying.
None came.
He bore me down to the bed, then stood back. He shook out his wild hair, down his back, then reached his hands to his waist to divest himself of his waistband and waistcloth.
I rolled away, thinking to escape from the other side of the bed, then cried out as the wounds in my rib cage bit deep.
“Hera!” I cried, but there was no answer. It was as if she had never been.
I heard the rustle as Brutus dropped his waistcloth and band to one side, then a surprisingly gentle hand touched my shoulder as I lay, curled about my wounds and weeping in pain and humiliation.
He rolled me back to face him—I turned my face away from his nakedness—and he touched the newly blood-stained cuts beneath my breast.
“I am sorry I had to do that to you,” he said softly, climbing in beside me. “Cornelia, I—”
“I find you loathsome,” I sobbed. “Horrid. You killed Melanthus!” Then, to my everlasting shame, I burst into childish sobs, hiccupping and snuffling as if half the Acheron had flooded my nose.
He rolled himself close to me, and I drew away from his hateful, coarse flesh. He pulled me yet closer, his unkempt hair surrounding me—a torment of ten thousand fingers dragging slowly across my skin. His arms tightened, brooking no resistance, and he began to caress my breasts, my belly and those parts that hitherto had felt only Melanthus’ probing.
It was repulsive. I cringed under his hand and tightened my legs against the intrusion of his fingers. I twisted my face away from his and tried to tear his hands from my body.
All to no avail.
He never did lay his mouth to mine…but he did far, far worse.
I swore, as he knelt over me, both my wrists held tight above my head in one of his hands and the other forcing my legs apart, that I would not cry out, that I would not give him that satisfaction. I screwed my eyes tight shut, that at least I might not see, and bucked beneath him all I might, but he was too strong and too determined in his aim to humiliate and subjugate me.
“If you did not fight me,” he said, “then I would not have to hurt you so badly.”
But I continued to fight, of course I did, and he hurt me so horribly that I swore as the burning, brutal agony coursed through my body that I would hate him forever, that he would spend his life regretting that ever he thought to do this to me. The feel of him forcing his way inside me, thrusting unbelievably deep, was so vile, so obscene, that at one point I held my breath, hoping that somehow I could escape him through death.
But I had to breathe, I couldn’t stop myself, and my entire world collapsed into nothing but the wild thrusting of his body, the wretched stink of his sweaty flesh rubbing and pressing against mine, the harsh sound of his gasping lust and, finally, despicably, the ultimate humiliation—the spurting wetness of his seed inside me.
“Melanthus,” I sobbed, holding on to his name as a charm. “Melanthus.”
Finally, thankfully, I had hurt him.
He cursed, and pulled himself free of my body, bruising me even in that action.
“I am going to bathe,” he said, and he rolled away, and rose from my bed.
I lay there, weeping softly, my mind scattering in a thousand different directions. Everything had gone so wrong; everything that had kept me safe was destroyed, every dream and hope lay ruined.
Was this what Hera had tried to warn me against? What was that name she had called my enemy? The Horned One?
“Asterion?” I whispered. Was this the creature that had raped me?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Brutus sat in the now cooled water of the tub, washing away the battle and sex sweat from his body.
He regretted what he had done; not so much the bedding of Cornelia—it happened to every girl sooner or later—but the marrying of her in the first place. Artemis, what had come over him? He’d taken everything he’d needed from Pandrasus, and he most certainly could have had the bedding of Pandrasus’ daughter without marrying her…so…why had he done it?
It was as if someone else had spoken those words for him, or had forced them out of his mouth. They had been a deep compulsion, shot through his mouth before he’d been able to swallow them.
Well, no matter. He was well past the age when most men married, and a Dorian princess was not the worst contract he could have made. If she bred him sons—and if he could manage to teach her to keep her mouth shut—she would do well enough.
Brutus moved slightly, suddenly uncomfortable as he remembered how Artemis had all but promised herself to him as a reward should he win through the test within Mesopotama. How would she react to this girl? He fretted over it for a few minutes, then relaxed, smiling at himself. How could Artemis be jealous of Cornelia?
Brutus raised his head and looked to the bed. Cornelia lay curled up tight, her back to him, the slight shaking of her shoulders betraying her weeping. She was not a beautiful girl, but she was comely enough, and had pleasantly rounded limbs that, were they ever to wrap themselves about a man in pleasure, would be as sweet as honey.
He could have done worse in a wife.
Refreshed, Brutus rose, dried himself, and walked slowly back to the bed. His body was very dark in the night; his hair, still unbound, drifted cloud-like about his shoulders and back.
Only the gold banding his arms and legs glistened bright as he moved.
He reached the bed, stood a moment, then sat down and laid a hand on Cornelia’s shoulder.
“You will get used to me,” he said. “I will not be a bad husband to you.”
She stiffened, and Brutus sighed. His hand tightened on her shoulder, then slid round to her breast.
Surprisingly, she rolled over and looked him in the face.
“Are you Asterion?” she said. “Are you he?”
Brutus was momentarily stunned—he could not think of anything further apart from what she might have said to him—then laughed, half in genuine amusement, half to cover his surprise.
“Asterion? I? You flatter me, child, if you think me that malevolent.”
Then his smile died. “Did I hurt you so badly,” he asked, “that you would name me Asterion?” His eyes moved down to the red, angry wounds beneath her breasts, and his fingers traced gently over them. He lifted his hand to her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
Then, very slowly, very carefully, he began to make love to her again, and this time she did not fight him, but only turned her head and closed her eyes so she did not have to see him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Llangar
lia
Genvissa still hadn’t completely calmed down after discovering Mag had managed to escape her, so that when she gleaned the knowledge that Brutus had taken a wife—of all things!—in the full flush of triumphant victory, Genvissa descended into a truly black humour.
She was grateful that her ill-temper had caused Aerne to seek a bed elsewhere this night. Her grumblings and mutterings could not disturb him—or cause him to ask questions. So Genvissa lay there, sensing the pain and force of Brutus’ nuptial conquest, and finally managed to calm herself down. She was surely too old and mature to allow herself to be waylaid by a little petty jealousy.
A wife was, in the end, not too much trouble. It certainly wouldn’t keep Brutus from her side, nor from his duties to the Game. And what a petty, pudgy-faced, plump-thighed, self-obsessed child his runaway mouth had caught for him.
Genvissa lay very still, trying to glean what she could about the girl. She was a child, and silly, and unlikely to hold any man’s attention for longer than it took to bed her…but the more Genvissa tried to scry the child’s true nature out, the more she came to realise that there was something else about her.
Something shadowy. Something unknowable.
Genvissa did not like that. She did not like it that this child-bride of Brutus’ hid something about her that Genvissa could not discern.
For hours Genvissa lay there, growing more frustrated and ill-tempered until, in the end, as dawn was finally pushing back the darkness, Genvissa managed to put aside her concerns. There was nothing about Cornelia apart from her actual existence. If Genvissa thought there was something shadowy about the girl, then that was only because she had been shocked by Brutus’ sudden action in taking the girl to wife. That was all.
Cornelia was no threat, and surely the girl’s childish silliness would drive Brutus into her own arms with more speed than possibly might be seemly.
As the house grew lighter, Genvissa smiled even more and stretched lazily under the bed furs, enjoying their soft caress against her naked flesh.
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