He turned as if to follow, but she held out her hand, halting him. “Do as I say, Brutus,” she said, and then, suddenly, Artemis was gone, as if she had never been.
IN A LAND FAR DISTANT, SO DISTANT IT WAS ALMOST IN-
comprehensible to either Trojan or Llangarlian, a naked youth of particular dark beauty sat in a barren dry plain in the valley of an alpine landscape. Above him reared snow and ice-capped mountains, about him whistled frigid winds, but none of this did he notice.
He sat cradled within the dark heart of the unicursal labyrinth that he had scrawled in the dry earth with a knife. The knife lay on the soil before his crossed legs, its blade pointed outwards towards the entrance of—the escape from— the labyrinth, its curious twisted bone haft pointing towards the youth.
Asterion sat, his black eyes riveted on the knife, drawing strength from its curious dark power, thinking on what he had just learned: one of Ariadne’s daughter-heirs had made her initial move in resurrecting the Game.
And here he sat, “trapped” in this calamitously weak body. He smiled, as cold and malicious as the landscape about him. Asterion had known exactly what Her-ron was doing when she interfered in his rebirth, forcing him into this body and this distant land. He had expected it, had known that either Ariadne or one of her daughter-heirs would try to negate his power so they could restart the Game. Having anticipated the betrayal, Asterion could very well have stopped it, and escaped Herron’s darkcraft.
But that was the very last thing Asterion wanted to do. Above all else he wanted Herron and whoever followed her to believe he was incapacitated, that he was trapped and impotent.
Asterion’s smile grew colder, his eyes darker. Weak his body might be, but his power was stronger than ever.
He reached out a hand, and touched the knife gently, loving it. This knife was very precious to him, for it was of him. In his first rebirth after Ariadne had enacted her Catastrophe, ruining the Game in the Aegean world, Asterion had journeyed back to the devastated island of Crete. There he searched out the remains of his former body— the body that Theseus had murdered with Ariadne’s aid— and cut from its skull the two great curved horns. These Asterion had then worked, with the skills both of power and of craftsmanship, into the twisted bone handle that now adorned the blade of the knife.
In the months and years ahead this knife was going to be his friend and his ally, his voice, and
the weapon that he would use against Herron’s daughter-heir Gen-vissa and this man she had picked as her partner in the Game.
Weak? No, Asterion was stronger than ever.
His smile died, and his eyes glittered.
* *
BRUTUS STOOD FOR A VERY LONG TIME, WATCHING the moonlight play out over the crescent of sleepers and the waters wash in gently, gently, gently to the sand.
Troy. He was to rebuild Troy.
He could feel the excitement deep in his belly, as powerful an urge as the sexual longing Artemis had roused in him, and he lifted his arms and placed his hands on each of the golden bands that encircled his biceps.
Troy. Home regained.
It was ninety-eight years since Troy had fallen to trickery and betrayal, ninety-eight years since the Trojans who’d survived that betrayal had wandered homeless about the lands of the Mediterranean.
Ninety-eight years during which thousands had died, more thousands had been enslaved, and others, like himself and his comrades, had journeyed purposeless, fighting as mercenaries when asked, sometimes fighting when not asked for the sheer relief of it, sometimes settling for a season or two to aid some tiny community sow and harvest crops, always constantly searching, searching, searching.
Now, the searching might not completely be done, but the waiting was over. Brutus was to regain his heritage: Troy.
He took a deep breath, tipped back his head, and opened his arms to the moonlight, as if in silent exultation.
The next moment he was crouching in the sand, eyes moving warily about the beach, as a shout of sheer terror swept over the sleepers.
Men rolled out of their blankets, hands grabbing at weapons, and Brutus, vulnerable in his nakedness, ran back to where his sword lay.
But by the time he had reached his tangle of blankets, both he and the other men were relaxing back from their alert. The shout had come from one of the sleeping men.
A dream, no doubt.
There were a few murmured words, and a snort of laughter, then men lay back down to their sleep once more, but Brutus now could see which sleeper it was who had shouted in dream terror, and his shoulders were again tense.
Membricus, tutor, friend, onetime lover, and, Brutus knew only too well, a powerful seer.
‘Membricus?” Brutus said, kneeling where his friend sat wide-eyed in his blanket. “What have you
seen?”
Membricus—a lean, older man with wide, thick lips, even but yellowing teeth, and a shock of gray curls twisting around the sides of his balding pate—turned to look at Brutus. His gray eyes, normally cool and distant, now had retreated to the color and warmth of ice.
‘The Game has begun,” he said, low and hoarse.
‘The Game is dead,” Brutus said, perhaps too sharply. “It died with Ariadne’s betrayal.”
Membricus shook his head, then looked at where his hands clutched intc his blankets. Brutus could see that their fingers trembled. “The Game has onl) been waiting. Now it has woken.”
‘It was a dream, Membricus. A dream.”
Membricus raised his eyes back to Brutus; they were once again clear anc part of this world. “The Game is stirring,” he said, then he sighed, turned awa^ from Brutus, and rolled himself back into his blanket.
The Game is stirring? Brutus slowly stood, staring at Membricus’ form.
Power, the goddess had offered him. His heritage.
Again Brutus’ hands strayed to the golden bands about his biceps: “O course,” he whispered, and he shuddered at the thought of the degree of powe that would be his if the Game was indeed stirring.
A thousand years, she had teased him.
And perhaps that was no tease at all.
Brutus did not sleep the rest of the night. Instead he paced up and dow the beach, staring out to sea, watching the light catch on the crescents of th breaking waves, waiting impatiently for the dawn and the start he could mat toward his heritage.
Five HE NEXT MORNING, WHEN THE MEN ROSE AND set to break their fast, Brutus called them to stand before him, and announced that they were to sail two days’ south ; city called Mesopotama.
‘And from where has this idea sprung, Brutus?” asked Membricus, laying down the bowl of maza one of the other men had handed him. The older man looked tired and drawn, as if the fear of his dream still lingered within him.
‘Last night, as we slept, the goddess Artemis came to me,” Brutus said, addressing the crowd of warriors rather than answering Membricus solely. “She announced to me that it was time for me to resume my great-grandfather’s inheritance.” He drew in a deep breath, his face joyous. “We are to rebuild Troy in a land untouched by troubles! Troia Nova! A city, not of ill luck and trickery, but of strength and nobleness, blessing and peace.”
Instantly men shouted questions at Brutus, but he held up his hands, and hushed them back to silence.
He still had not dressed, and standing naked under the clear morning sun, the golden bands gleaming against his deeply tanned skin, his wild black hair flowing about his shoulders, Brutus looked like a god
himself.
‘For years you have followed me, giving me your loyalty and your swords,” he continued. “I could have asked for no better. And neither could the gods! We are to be blessed again, my friends. Handed back the favor of the gods!”
One of the warriors stepped forth. He was of an age with Membricus, but tightly muscled and barrel-chested and completely bald above his hook-nosed face.
He strode up to Brutus, leaned close, and touched his mouth to the band that encircled Brutus’ right biceps. “I am always proud to serve you, Brutus.
But today my joy transcends my pride. Troy. Oh, gods! That we shall rebuild Troy!”
His voice trembled, but he controlled himself. He was one of Brutus’ most respected officers, and had traveled widely before joining Brutus’ band some eight years previously.
Brutus smiled, and laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hicetaon? I can see by your eyes that there is something more you want to tell me.”
‘I know of this Mesopotama,” Hicetaon said.
‘It is ruled by a man called Pandrasus,” Brutus said. “This the goddess told me.”
‘Oh, aye,” Hicetaon said. “And did she say more?”