Hades' Daughter

by Sara Douglass

  He grinned, insolent, then leaned out for the wooden shutter and banged it closed as he stepped back into the room.

  Deimas’ face went expressionless. That had not been the face of a cowed and humiliated man.

  Pandrasus sat in his small chamber in the palace he had once called his own, and waited for his daughter to join him. His Trojan captors constantly moved him from chamber to chamber, as if they wanted him to experience the discomforts of every pitiful, cramped room they could find, and this chamber was particularly bad. It was bare of all ornamentation—there was not even any plaster on the walls, let alone painted murals—had nothing but a rush matting floor, and its window was small and all but useless, as it opened on to a back courtyard that the butchers used for their slaughtering.

  His chamber was constantly filled with the stink of blood and burst entrails, and, even worse, the sound of cheerful Trojan voices as they discussed their impending departure.

  Pandrasus’ face twisted in a grim smile. Once he had found that talk disagreeable beyond measure. Now he found it amusing.

  If only they knew.

  He stood, impatient for Cornelia’s arrival, and brushed down his waistcloth. It was creased and stained. No one now came to robe him, and none to wash and brush his linens. Pandrasus the king was served no longer, save by his vengeful thoughts, and by his daughter, who brought to him what she could beg or steal from the Trojans who now cavorted about the palace.

  When all was done, and the Trojans dead, Pandrasus knew he would need to spend months repairing the palace from their carelessness, and airing it from their stink.

  There was a step at the door, and Pandrasus looked to it eagerly.

  “Cornelia. Beloved daughter!”

  She walked to meet him, limping slightly from a sprain caused by her long walk from the gates and embraced him.

  Both she and Pandrasus leaned away from her bulging belly, both hating it equally.

  “Sit,” Pandrasus said, taking her arm and guiding her to the single bench his captors had allowed him, abhorring the grateful sigh she made as she finally relieved her legs of her weight.

  If Pandrasus thought he could wrench that child from Cornelia’s belly without causing her any harm in the doing he would have done so in a moment. Every time he saw her, that belly had grown just a bit more. And every time Pandrasus saw that belly, he was reminded of how it had been made, and his mind’s eye saw his beautiful daughter pinned beneath Brutus’ body, and every time he thought of that, he vowed revenge.

  And how strange, he now thought, sitting by Cornelia and taking her hand, that the revenge should have come from this girl.

  No, girl no longer. These past seven months had turned Cornelia into a woman, and her humiliation at Brutus’ hands had turned her mind from girlish things to schemes of revenge.

  “You are tired,” Pandrasus said. “I have some wine. Would you—”

  “No, father. I paused to drink on my way to you. Save it for yourself.” She heaved a sigh, and patted her belly. “It grows larger each day.” Her mouth twisted. “And each time it moves within me I am reminded of my purpose. And yours.”

  “Aye. Did you—?”

  Her eyes flitted to the door, knowing she must watch every word spoken. “Yes. All is well.”

  “And ready?” His voice was soft, and both fearful and hopeful. So much rested on her reply.

  She nodded, her eyes shining, and the hand on her belly clenched into a fist. “Yes. The final ships have arrived.” She raised her eyebrows significantly at her father.

  Pandrasus drew in a deep breath, keeping his excitement under control. The final ships had arrived…

  “From Nichoria?”

  “Yes.”

  “And their cargo?”

  “Undamaged,” she said, very low, “and undiscovered. The ships arrived at night, and disgorged their payload on the coast some two hours’ sail south of the Mesopotaman bay. Needless to say,” her eyes flickered once more towards the door, “I am sure that payload is now much, much closer.”

  Pandrasus’ tongue crept over his lips, tasting the revenge that was now so close. Cornelia had worked tirelessly these past few months, using Tavia to conduct the secret negotiations (and the necessary threats) between himself and Podarces, ensuring that all was in its set place, using her quick mind to solve any potential hurdle. Their revenge was brilliant not only in its audacity and potential, but in its ability both to defeat and humiliate the Trojans. It was Troy all over again. The ships that Brutus had forced Pandrasus to requisition carried not only Brutus’ hopes, but also his doom.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Five days after Cornelia’s shadow had fallen across him, Brutus gave the order to load the fleet for sailing. The ships were already stocked with non-perishables: thousands of amphorae were filled with water, wine, oil, honey, grains, herbs, nuts, preserved eggs, dried vegetables and fruits, and stoppered tight against the sea; spare linen sails and fibre ropes, enough to refit half the fleet if need be; woollen wraps and blankets against the night cold; vials of medicines and unguents; and those useful household items that could not be left behind—utensils, pots, tools, looms, spindles and baskets.

  Tucked into the holds of the deepest merchant ships were stacks of gold and silver and baskets of gems; Pandrasus’ wealth, given into the keeping of the Trojan fleet.

  Now the rafts floating goods out to the ships were filled with more perishable items: three score of milking goats and ewes, as well as a few billygoats and rams and other animals; cheeses, meats and fresh fruits; broths of beans and pulses; fresh cakes of maza and turon.

  Brutus did not know how long they would need to sail, nor what they could garner along the way, and he fretted night and day as to whether or not they would have enough to sustain seven thousand mouths during this unknowable voyage.

  At night, when the palace was quiet, he knelt before an altar to Artemis he’d found tucked away in a chamber just off the megaron and prayed to her for guidance and the wisdom to direct his orders. He could barely wait until the fleet had sailed and he could reach the island where Artemis had promised to meet him. He’d included a pure white goat in the cargo of his own ship, meaning to take it to the island and sacrifice it to the goddess in thanks for her aid and blessing.

  Then, much later at night, when he had returned to the chamber he shared with Cornelia and lay by her side, he wondered at Membricus’ words. Hades’ daughter, he’d called this girl. Sometimes he rolled over to face her, and placed a gentle hand on her belly, feeling his child move within her.

  At those times he would also feel her muscles tense with her hatred, and he would sigh. Again and again he regretted taking her in marriage, and taking her with such pain and violence that first night, but every time he felt the movement of his child his regrets would fade, and he felt only the wonder of the new growing life.

  The night before the Trojans would sail, Brutus came to his and Cornelia’s chamber very late. He had spent most of the evening on the beach supervising the loading of the last of the livestock, then the earlier part of the night praying to Artemis. Now, although he was tired, he knew his anxiety about the coming day would keep him wakeful, and when he lay down beside Cornelia, he placed his hand again on her belly, and spoke.

  “Have you said your goodbyes to your father, Cornelia? Tomorrow will be a crowded and busy day, and it is possible you will be so hurried on to our ship that you will lose your chance to kiss him farewell.”

  For a moment he thought she would continue her pretence at sleep, but then she sighed, and opened her eyes. “My father and I have nothing more to say to each other. All that could be said, has been said.”

  “Are you angry, Cornelia, that I drag you away from your childhood home?”

  “What do you think? Am I happy that my father was humiliated and destroyed by Trojans? No! Am I joyful that you murdered the man I loved? No! Am I happy that you then seized me and put this child in me? No! Leave me here, I pray you, Brut
us, and I swear before the gods that I will remember you kindly.”

  He laughed softly, his hand caressing her belly, then her thigh. “Everyone begs me to leave you behind, but I cannot. Perhaps we should put our hatred away, Cornelia, and play at being a true husband and wife together. Make the best of what is.”

  “Why? You have destroyed everything I loved.”

  Brutus bit down a sudden flare of temper. By the gods, would she never get over her resentment? It was a poor dowry indeed to bring to a marriage. “We go to rebuild Troy, sweet. Does that not excite you? I will make you a queen, and burden you with jewels, and you shall be the envy of every woman and the lust of every man in Troia Nova.”

  “I want to stay here. I want to stay with my father, and I want you gone!” One of her small hands had clenched into a fist, and she beat it gently against her taut belly as she spoke.

  “I cannot turn back time, Cornelia. For the love of the gods, girl, stop this whining about what once was, and learn to live with what is! You are carrying my child. I am not going to leave you behind!”

  “I wanted Melanthus,” she said. “I loved Melanthus. I did not want you. I will never love you!”

  Brutus moved closer to her, her mention of Melanthus stirring him to jealousy and resentment as it always did. She might have loved Melanthus, and still love his memory, but Melanthus was not the one whom she lay with at night, nor the one to get her so large with child. Why did she not forget the boy? “I do not want your love. I do not even require it. But I am your husband, and that bond allows me to demand your loyalty and your service, as it binds me to your protection and care.”

  He began to make love to her, gently as he always did, and she averted her face and pretended indifference, as she always did. And, as so often, he felt her body respond to his; Cornelia could pretend many things, but she could not hide from him the involuntary responses of her muscles nor the raggedness of her breath.

  Much later, when he had done and had felt her body shudder in its own release, he moved back from her, intending to withdraw and lie by her side, holding her until she slept.

  But as he moved, she turned her face back to him and opened her deep blue eyes, and said, “Did you know that whenever you lie with me I imagine that you are Melanthus? That the reason I respond as I do to you is by repeating Melanthus’ name as a mantra over and over and over in my mind?”

  He froze, shocked and angry, and furious at himself for allowing her words to sting so deeply. She was lying, he knew it…surely? No woman could have one man make love to her and yet keep another man’s face and name at the forefront of her mind…could she?

  Cornelia watched him carefully, and as she saw his reaction her mouth curved in a cold smile. “Of course, Melanthus would have had more stamina than you,” she said. “He was so much younger. So much more athletic.”

  He pulled away from her, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting, head in hands, trying to bring his temper under control. Witch!

  “Far more desirable,” she whispered, and he heard her shift on the bed, as if in an agony of wanting.

  It was too much. He swung back to her, grabbing one of her wrists in his hand, and jerked her across the bed to him.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed. “I carry your son. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Then beware of the day you no longer carry that child, Cornelia. Beware the day.”

  “On the contrary, beloved,” she said, the word an insult, “I look forward to it greatly.”

  Then she rolled away from him, made herself comfortable with some ostentatious fuss, and pretended to fall into sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CORNELIA SPEAKS

  Oh, his expression! I had wanted to say that to him for months, to taunt him, to insult him. And to watch his face redden as my barbs hit home; to watch the hurt in his eyes…it partly repaid me for all the humiliation he’d put me through in the past months.

  Another day, and he would be dead.

  Brutus took some time to lie back down to sleep, and I wondered if I’d been as clever as I’d initially thought. I couldn’t afford to have him awake all the night through. Should I turn and say something sweet to placate him? The thought made my stomach turn, but if I had to…No, praise Hera. Eventually I heard the deep regular breathing of sleep.

  To be sure, I lay awake for many hours, enjoying the sense of happiness and anticipation that flooded through me. Tomorrow night Brutus would be gone, and all the other Trojans either dead with him or re-enslaved into such bondage it would be the ruination of all their hopes.

  Tomorrow night I and my father would again be supreme within Mesopotama, laughing together as we surveyed the destruction we had wrought.

  Tomorrow night I could prevail upon Tavia to feed me those herbs which would cause me to birth this hateful baby before its time. Then neither of us would need fear Brutus’ wrath at the murder of his son.

  Tomorrow night I would sit and watch the horrid thing between my legs, bathed in its birth blood, gasping for—yet never gaining—air, and I would laugh with delight as it died, as Brutus’ hopes would die during this coming day.

  Within the week my belly would be flat again, and I could forget all the horror of these past few months. My father would again rule from his megaron, and I would again stand beside him, clad in the most wondrous of linens and the rarest of silks…and no one would ever dare to think of that time that Brutus and the Trojans had humiliated us.

  These past months would vanish as if they had never been…and perhaps the gods would be generous enough to allow Melanthus to rise from the dead and take his rightful place beside me and in my bed.

  Tomorrow night…tomorrow night…tomorrow night all these things would come to pass.

  But first, as Brutus slept, I needed to spend the darkest hour on one last task to ensure that tomorrow night was indeed all that I could hope.

  Silently sending my nightly prayer of thanks to that strange goddess with the black curly hair with its peculiar russet streak (Hera might be weak beyond telling, but her distant sister had proved more than beneficial), I sat up carefully, and looked at Brutus’ face.

  He was deeply asleep, his face slack, his chest moving in slow, lumbrous breaths.

  I slid from the bed and reached for a loose gown to pull about my bulky nakedness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The moment Cornelia had slipped from the room, Brutus’ eyes flew open. He rose, snatching at his waistband and cloth, then trod silently to the door.

  What was she doing?

  He had not slept. Instead, Brutus had lain seething beside Cornelia, controlling his breathing and muscles so she would not know he was awake, wondering how he could rid himself of her once she’d borne his son.

  Her vicious words had upset him beyond knowing—and he was angry that he was so upset. He had gone out of his way to be kind to her over these past months, only for her to repay him with such vituperation. Membricus was right. Deimas was right. Everyone who had spoken to him their wary words about the bitch he’d taken to wife was right.

  The instant she’d birthed his son he would rid himself of her. The very instant…

  Brutus had been lost in a fantasy of tipping Cornelia over the side of a ship for the giant marine worms to consume—he watching as he cradled his newly born son—when he felt her rise.

  At first Brutus thought she was just using the chamber pot, or perhaps washing away the traces of their sex, as she sometimes did. But instead she slipped from the chamber, and his mind instantly flared with suspicion.

  There was no need for her to leave the chamber at this hour of the night.

  At the door Brutus peered carefully up and down the corridor’s length. It was the main thoroughfare of the royal chambers of the palace, and silent and still at this hour of the deep night.

  Save for the soft tread of Cornelia’s feet.

  Brutus slipped silently into the corridor, following the sound of Cornelia’s fo
otsteps, and thanking Artemis that she was so awkwardly pregnant now that graceful, silent movements were unachievable and that the small oil lamp she carried threw flickering shadows that he could follow at a safe distance.

  Still, she moved quickly enough for her bulk, and Brutus had some trouble keeping her in view, yet staying hidden himself. She left the main corridor for a narrower passage used for servant access, leaving that in turn for a staircase that wound through several levels to the basements of the palace.

  Brutus was sweating now, not from any effort required to keep up with Cornelia, but because of the increased risk of discovery in this narrow, winding stairwell. He could keep out of sight of his wife, for the glow of her lamp guided him, but of necessity he had to climb down in the dark, and Brutus was concerned lest he should trip and so alert Cornelia to his presence.

  But the gods were with him, and he reached the bottom of the stairwell without mishap.

  He looked slowly, infinitely carefully, around the corner of the stairwell.

  There was a flash of blue linen—Cornelia’s gown—in a doorway that had been so cunningly concealed within racks holding a legion of dusty and cracked amphorae that Brutus would otherwise have walked straight by it. Even so, by the time he’d worked out exactly where it was, several minutes had passed, and Brutus was worried Cornelia would have slipped away completely in that time.

  Again the gods were with him. When Brutus stepped carefully through the door, he saw that Cornelia’s lamp glowed not far distant, around one turning of a short corridor.

  There was a soft murmur of voices, and Brutus’ heart beat harder.

  With the utmost care, tense and ready to flee the instant the lamp glow moved back towards him or the voices drew closer, Brutus crept down to the turning. He thought of peering around it, but his innate caution won out, and so he pressed himself against the stone wall, and listened.