“You came safe?” he heard Cornelia say.
“Aye.” A man’s voice, deep and confident. “Although the tunnel to this place was damp and running with filth. You could have told us it was a sewer.”
If Brutus had not been so consumed with anger, he might have smiled at that.
“How many?” Cornelia said.
“All you requested.”
“And you have arms?”
“Aye, more than enough to equip three times our number.”
“Good.” Brutus could hear the satisfaction in Cornelia’s voice, and it was all he could do to keep his rage under control. A daughter of Hades indeed!
“You will follow me up these corridors,” Cornelia said, and Brutus tensed, ready to move, “and I will show you the way to the streets outside. Hide yourself until it is time. Now, be quiet, for the palace sleeps about us.”
By the time Cornelia arrived back in her chamber, no doubt tired and anxious lest her husband had awoken during her absence, Brutus was back in bed, his face slack, his chest drawing in the long, slow breaths of deepest sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
“You were right to warn me of Cornelia,” Brutus said, his voice dangerously expressionless, “and right to think that some Dorian mischief is planned.” Treachery aside, her vicious words regarding Melanthus still played over and over in his mind.
He took a deep breath, and looked around at the men in Deimas’ house: Deimas himself, Assaracus, Membricus, Hicetaon, Idaeus, several other of his senior officers, and Trojan men from Pandrasus’ former slave community. Brutus had risen just before dawn, murmured to Cornelia as she mumbled a query that he wanted to check the final preparations for the boarding and that he would send for her later, and come to Deimas’ house, shouting that he wanted his senior commanders and leaders of the Trojan community here within the half-hour.
“What has she done?” Membricus asked.
Brutus briefly told them of what he had seen and heard during the night.
“How many?” Hicetaon said.
“I do not know. Many, I am sure. And with enough weapons to further equip Dorian men.”
“Where are they now?” Assaracus asked.
Brutus shrugged. “Hidden in small groups deep within the city, Assaracus, but I do not know the exact ‘where’. If they are experienced enough, and we must assume they are, they would not take the risk of hiding in one single, large group.”
“They could have disguised themselves as labourers or carriers by now,” Deimas said, “their weapons hid within sacks of barley or beneath cloaks.”
“You would not recognise strangers?” Brutus asked.
“Maybe one or two, here and there,” Deimas said. “But these armed men would need to be out on the street for I, or any other, to recognise them as strangers. Finding them in ones and twos is going to take several weeks—”
“And they will strike today,” Brutus said, wiping a hand across his stubbly chin, wishing he’d had the time to shave this morning. “But how and when will they strike? Hicetaon, Idaeus? If you were commanding this group, and you needed to stop a crowd of seven thousand leaving this city, how would you do it?”
Hicetaon and Idaeus glanced at each other, each knowing they thought the same thing.
“It would be easier than you perhaps imagine,” Hicetaon said. “In order to move the Trojans down to the beaches, they will first need to leave their houses and walk through the streets. Seven thousand people on narrow and confining streets, the greater majority of whom will be women and children and grandparents who will panic and mill in confusion the instant an attack is started…it will be a slaughter, Brutus. Especially if they have twenty or thirty men at the gates to slam them shut at the critical moment. Even with the gates open, people will not be able to move through quickly enough.”
“These armed men need not number more than two hundred,” Idaeus put in, “to create havoc and death. And remember, you said they had arms to equip three times their number of Dorians.”
“But if I move my men on to the streets—” Brutus began.
“Where, Brutus?” Hicetaon said. “We do not know from which point these men will strike…and our men, to cover the entire length of the streets, will be spread too thin to be of much use.”
Brutus bit his lip, thinking. “Can we send our men through the city to find them?”
“The Dorians will have hid them well,” Deimas said, “and it would take too long. We must leave today, Brutus. The ships’ captains say the winds and tides will turn by tomorrow morning, and we shall have to wait many more weeks for another suitable sailing. But by then it will be too late anyway, as the autumn storms will have set in and sailing with so many heavily loaded craft will be too dangerous.”
“So,” Brutus said, looking about the group, “we must leave today, yet if we move our people out into the streets there is likely to be a slaughter.”
Assaracus remembered how Artemis had aided Brutus against Pandrasus’ army. “Artemis?” he said.
Brutus shook his head. “I do not think Artemis will aid us here, my friend.” He grinned wryly. “She may even have sent these soldiers to test us, to see if we are worthy. We must make use of our own cunning in this instance. Tell me, how will these armed men—strangers to this city—recognise Trojans from Dorians? Presumably Cornelia and her father do not want a wholesale slaughter of their own people.”
“But there will be only Trojans on the streets,” Deimas put in. “No Dorian will venture out, not if they know an attack is planned.”
“But if the streets were crowded with both Dorians and Trojans,” Brutus continued, apparently not the least bit put out by Deimas’ response, “how will the strangers recognise Trojan from Dorian?” His eyes were still amused, as if he well knew the answer.
“By the difference in our hair,” Deimas said, waving his hand at his hairline as proof. “Every one of us has shorn his hair short to even up our hairlines from the mark of slavery. The Dorians, men and women both, have long, luxurious hair. Months have passed, yes, but not long enough for our hair to reach our shoulders. There is nothing, surely, we can do about that.”
Assaracus suddenly laughed. “Unless the Dorians have short hair as well.”
“What?” said Deimas. “You think to shear every Dorian’s hair within the space of a few hours?”
“Not every one,” said Brutus, grinning at Assaracus, “but many, to be sure.”
“Children,” said Hicetaon.
“Aye,” said Brutus. “As many children as we can, and after that as many adults. Shear their hair to the same length as your growing tresses, Deimas.”
“Yes,” said Deimas slowly, as he thought, and then he, too, was grinning with the other men in the room. “If you lend us some of your men, Brutus, we can force our way into enough homes, and shear enough of their curly locks, to make a difference.” He looked about. “And if Trojans took Dorian clothes, and spoke in the Dorian manner, then their Trojan features would fade into obscurity, and in the heat and haste of crowded streets strangers would find it all but impossible to tell them apart.”
Brutus nodded, smiling, well pleased. “Then send out your men,” he said to Hicetaon, Assaracus and Idaeus, “and arm them well with sharpened shears.”
“But this will only work to our advantage if the streets are crowded with Dorians as well,” said Idaeus. “How do you intend to manage that?”
Brutus’ smile stretched into a mischievous grin and he nodded at Deimas and the three other Mesopotaman Trojans in the room. “Tell the bakers to stoke their ovens, and to leave the doors ajar. With straw and spare lumber laid out before them. When Mesopotama catches fire, the Dorians will flee into the streets in as great a number as we could wish.”
“This will take time to organise,” Membricus observed.
“Aye,” Brutus said. “We will delay our departure until the early afternoon—that should give people enough time to prepare. I’ll tell Cornelia that there’s been
some problem with the ships.”
“And what are you going to do with Cornelia and Pandrasus?” Deimas said.
Brutus’ face lost its smile. “Ensure neither lays an obstacle in our path again,” he said.
As the group broke up, Brutus drew Membricus aside. “My friend, can we talk alone a moment?”
CHAPTER TEN
“There is something I need to tell you. Something we can use to our advantage,” Brutus said.
“Yes?”
“The Game lives on in this city, my friend.”
“What? How do you know this?”
“Artemis told me. She said that Ariadne left the Game alive in one insignificant city. This is it.”
“When did she tell you this?”
“On that night I journeyed alone to Mesopotama to speak with Assaracus and Deimas. I needed power to persuade them, and I drew on the power of the Game. It is here.”
“And you now, only now, think to tell me? By the gods, Brutus, how many months has it been?”
Brutus’ voice was very cold. “I have told you as and when you needed to know. There was no point beforehand. Do not assume too much from what was once between us, Membricus.”
Membricus drew in a deep breath, visibly relaxing the muscles of his face. “Very well. The Game lives on in this one insignificant city. Surely that will work against us. It will protect the city, Brutus, not us.”
“Do you remember Achilles?”
“What?” Membricus wondered if he was ever going to find a safe harbour in this conversation; Brutus kept knocking him sideways every time he drew breath.
“Even though Ariadne had undermined the power of the Game in Troy,” Brutus said, “there was still a little left, protecting the city against its Greek invaders. Otherwise Troy could not have held out so long. Correct?”
Membricus considered the question for traps, then decided there were none. “Correct.”
“And what did Achilles do?”
“He turned the power of the Game, whatever was left of it, against Troy.”
“Yes. Achilles drove his chariot about Troy seven times, counter-sunwise,” Brutus said, “dragging poor dead Hector behind him. He unwound the Game, Membricus, he undermined the magical ‘walls’ of Troy.”
“He unwound the thread,” Membricus said, very softly, “as Jericho’s enemies did also long ago. What do you suggest? That we unwind Mesopotama’s luck as Achilles unwound Troy’s?”
Brutus shook his head. “Achilles only employed that tactic because he had no access inside Troy’s walls. Somewhere in this city, Membricus, lies the labyrinth that was used to construct the Game. If we can destroy that, if we can unwind it, you know what will happen.” He paused, as if wary of even speaking the words. “If we do that then we let loose the black heart of the labyrinth.”
“And then Mesopotama will fall,” said Membricus, “more easily than did Troy.” His voice deepened, became thick with bitterness. “And the Dorians will die more easily than did so many Trojans.”
“Aye,” Brutus said. “The others can manage the disguising of our people well enough.” His mouth twisted, the movement devoid of all amusement. “Would you like to join me in the hunt, my friend?”
“We should start at the gates,” Membricus said. “It is where the labyrinth most likely lurks.”
The city was quiet but tense as the two men strode down the virtually empty streets towards the gates. The Trojans were still ensconced in their homes, by now following directions to disguise their persons into the most complete imitation of the Dorian demeanour possible. The Dorians, doubtless warned about the planned attack (although from a different source), were also tight within their homes, not daring to venture out (doubtless, many were now regretting that decision as bands of armed hair-cutters burst through their front doors).
Brutus and Membricus, eyes moving warily from side to side as they walked, approached the gates which were closed and tightly guarded by Trojan warriors; Hicetaon’s warning of a possible surprise attack had patently already reached them.
“Where, do you think?” said Brutus, standing looking about.
Membricus looked at the flagged road immediately inside the gate. “Under these stones?”
Brutus shook his head. “No. If the labyrinth was stationed immediately inside the gate it would have been in full view. It would have been pointless placing it beneath paving stones.”
“Full view is also dangerous…too easily accessible, so…”
“So,” Brutus said turning around and looking at the buildings in the immediate vicinity. “So…it would have been placed somewhere where it could be accessed, but only by those who needed to.” He turned about slowly, his eyes tracing the contours of rooflines and alleyways. Suddenly he stopped, and pointed. “There.”
Just to the right of the inner set of gates was a solidly built guardhouse, set almost directly against the city walls.
“There will be a cellar,” said Membricus.
“Oh, aye. What better place than a guardhouse to hide something of immense value?” Brutus grinned, and clapped Membricus on the shoulder. “Come, let’s make some use of these strong warriors of ours. I think I can see a heavy slab floor through that door.”
The floor was indeed heavy slab, and it took four of Brutus’ strongest warriors to clear the room of various benches and weapon racks and then lift corners of sundry slabs to see if there were steps underneath any of them.
Brutus was heartily relieved when the eighth slab the men lifted in the northern corner of the room did indeed reveal steps: he wasn’t sure what he feared more, being wrong about the existence of the labyrinth, or about its location. He didn’t think the men would willingly follow him from one building to another in the vague hope they might find hidden steps underneath the next lot of heavy slabs.
One of the men silently handed Brutus an oil lamp. He nodded his thanks, drew a deep breath of reverence—how long had it been since a living man had set eyes on the labyrinthine enchantment of the Game?—then motioned Membricus to follow him down the steps.
The chamber below was much larger than the floor area of the guardhouse would have suggested. Its northern wall was formed by the lower masonry courses of the city wall itself, while the other three walls were of pale plastered brick.
The construction was simple, the walls unadorned, for nothing mattered save the sign of the Game carved into the entire floor space.
It was a unicursal labyrinth, its lines chiselled into the stone slabs. The opening of the labyrinth lay directly before the base of the steps, marked at the entrance by a beautiful carving of intertwined flowers, its path winding through seven circles and four quadrants, ending in a rounded centre that had been entirely swabbed in pitch: the black heart of the labyrinth, the mirror of the unknown darkness within the soul of a man.
Membricus stepped down to join Brutus on the final step. They stood, arms touching, staring at the labyrinth in utter silence.
“Dare I the labyrinth?” Brutus whispered. He knew as certainly as he knew he still breathed: this was Artemis’ test.
And he also knew what this test implied. If Artemis wanted him to rebuild Troy, then she also wanted him to employ the Game to do so.
“Who else?” said Membricus, not surprised to find his voice hoarse.
“Aye. Who else…?” Brutus continued to stare at the labyrinth for long minutes, then he motioned to Membricus to stay where he was before briskly climbing up to the ground floor of the guardhouse.
Membricus could hear Brutus as he walked out to the street, asking for a pail brimming with hot, wet pitch and giving orders that the Trojans begin to leave their homes at noon.
He swallowed, suddenly nervous at what Brutus was going to do.
Who else would dare the black heart of the labyrinth?
And then let it walk at his back into the daylight?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At noon, as Trojan men, women and children began to file from their homes, a s
hout rose from a market street that abutted one of the most densely built and overcrowded sections of Mesopotama.
“Fire! Fire!”
At first the shout was muted, as if it thought no one would pay heed, but then someone else noticed the smoke drifting from the rooflines of the houses, and he, too, screamed, “Fire! Fire!”
To these shouts were added those of Trojan men, who, dressed in the fine-patterned tunics of Dorian citizens, ran through the streets, their voices panicked. “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
Then, as Dorians cautiously opened shutters and peered into the streets, the sound of the fire itself trickled along the streets—a snapping, a hissing, and then a twisting and a shattering, as if beams and tiles cracked and fell to stone floors in the heat of the conflagration.
The fire could not yet be clearly seen, and it had not spread much beyond the half-dozen bakehouses, but already it had done its worst damage—igniting panic among a citizenry who well knew that a fire within the dense housing of a walled city was deadly.
Brutus took the brush and then the pail, brimful with hot pitch, from the soldier—who stood a long moment staring at the labyrinth on the floor of the sub-chamber before remembering to let go of the pail’s handle—and turned back to the chamber.
“I was only taught a memory,” he said. “I did not think I would ever encounter the Game itself.”
Membricus didn’t know what to say. As one of the few surviving remnants of Trojan nobility and heir to Aeneas’ line, Brutus had been taught the intricacies of the Game from a young age—but he would have been taught it as something long dead. A tradition, a memory, a slice of his princely past—not as something he would ever be likely to perform or have to manipulate.
“It is weak,” he said, laying a reassuring hand on Brutus’ shoulder. “Barely alive. It still casts some protective enchantment over Mesopotama, but, if I am right, it does not hold enough power to truly hurt you.”
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