‘There is darkness there!” he gasped.
‘What do you see?” Brutus said.
Membricus cried out, but Brutus’ voice had broken his vision, and as he sucked in several lungfuls of air, his face cleared of horror, although it remained grim.
‘There is darkness—an evil—crawling down the Acheron toward Mesopotama,” he said. “But I cannot… I cannot see what.”
Hicetaon muttered something about the uselessness of seers whose eyes had clouded with age, but Brutus ignored him.
‘Membricus?” he said, very gently, moving to stand close to the man.
‘Brutus,” Membricus said, “Brutus… are you sure that you can handle the Game, if it does stir?”
Brutus took a deep breath. “Are you still so caught in the grip of your vision? Membricus, it is pointless to talk of the Game. Ariadne destroyed it, along with most of our world, and all of our hopes.”
Membricus’ eyes moved deliberately to Brutus’ golden bands.
‘Damn it, Membricus. There is not a single Mistress of the Labyrinth left. These bands mean nothing without a Mistress.”
‘And yet you said that those bands were sympathetic to—”
‘Enough!” Brutus snapped. He found himself curiously annoyed with Membricus and his continual prattle about the Game. It was somehow… intrusive. Almost sacrilegious.
‘And if you are going to rebuild Troy to even half its former glory,” Membricus went on, “you will need the Game to—” ” Enough!”
Membricus shrugged, and looked away, and for a long minute no one spoke.
Hicetaon, whose eyes had been flitting between Brutus and Membricus during this exchange, finally broke the silence. “Brutus, are you trained in the Game? Are you a Kingman ?”
Brutus sighed, and looked away.
Hicetaon raised his eyebrows at Membricus.
‘Brutus is the son of Silvius, son of Ascanius, son of Aeneas, who was the son of Aphrodite,”
Membricus finally said softly. “Brutus is of the line of gods and of kings, and he wears the kingship bands of Troy. Yes, Hicetaon, Brutus is trained in the Game. He is a trained Kingman. How could he not be?”
Hicetaon looked back to Brutus, and he inclined his head in a gesture of the deepest respect. “Then I fear not, whatever shadows lurk above Mesopo-tama,” he said. “Do you, Membricus?”
Brutus, who had been looking at the city in the distance, now turned his head very deliberately toward Membricus.
‘I always fear,” the old man snarled. “That’s what seers do best.”
Brutus grunted, half in laughter, half in derision. “Enough talk of this Game. It only distracts me.
Beyond lies Mesopotama, and in it lie the people who will populate Troia Nova. Come, we need to talk of their rescue before we lose ourselves in talk of legend.”
‘The Game is not legend,” Membricus whispered, but Brutus ignored him.
‘Now, old men,” he said, “are you up for the journey down?”
ONCE RETURNED TO HIS THREE WARSHIPS MOORED IN the shallow inlet some twelve miles north of the Acheron and Mesopotama, Brutus hesitated just long enough before sitting down to his evening meal to send two of his warriors, disguised as laborers, to Mesopotama.
‘Find the man who speaks for the slaves and tell him, whosoever he might be, of who I am. Tell him that I would speak with him. Tell him that I have come to lead his and mine into Troy.”
HER RESPONSETOOK JUST OVER ONE DAY.
THEtwo soldiers finally returning in the hour after the sun had fully risen to where Brutus’ three warships lay at anchor. Both were still dressed in the dusty garbs of laborers, but looked well rested and fed; patently they had met with good hospitality. “Well?” said Brutus, who sat with Membricus and two other of his senior officers, Idaeus and Hicetaon, on the aft deck of his lead ship. Below them, in the belly of the open ship, men sat on the rowing benches, cleaning and oiling weapons against the constant depravations of the sea.
‘We have a return message, my lord. You are to travel this evening to Mesopotama itself, where you will meet in the residence of Assaracus, who dwells in the highest house against the northern wall.”
‘The highest house’?” Brutus said, raising his eyebrows. Obviously, this was no slave dwelling—not where it could catch the cooling breezes and offer its occupants a fine view.
‘Aye, my lord.”
‘This is a trap,” said Idaeus, whose manner was always one of caution when others advised action.
Brutus sometimes wondered if his innate caution extended to his eating habits as well, for Idaeus was an unnaturally thin man for his height, but for all that Brutus valued such circumspection in a world where so often men thought that wisdom equated with action.
‘Too obvious,” said Hicetaon, who was a man more disposed to think of prohibitive caution as a greater risk than unthinking daring. His face, chest, and flanks had the scars to attest to his philosophy.
Brutus had many years’ association with both men, and understood the extent of the arguments that lay behind their terse statements. He nodded once, slowly, acknowledging their advice, then looked back to the soldier who
had returned with the response. “Tell me inwhatmanner you received this message.”
‘We found our way to a man called Deimas in the slave quarter,” the soldier said. “He speaks for all the Trojans. This man Deimas considered your message, and then asked us to return in the evening.
When we did so, he asked us to relay to you the request to go to the house of Assaracus in the city tomorrow night after dusk, just before the gates close.”
Idaeus hissed softly at this last.
‘What do you know of this Assaracus?” Brutus said to the soldier.
‘Deimas said only that he was allied with the Trojan cause. However, he said further, to his request that only you attend Assaracus, that too many strange faces within the city walls would cause comment.
One man will attract no comment, especially should you dress as a lowly laborer or farmer. He has given
us words for you to say, so that Assaracus’ doorkeeper may know you.”
‘And Deimas’ manner? How would you describe it?”
‘He was not overly impressed at your message, my lord,” said the soldier. “He merely grunted, then laughed shortly.”
‘I still say’trap,’ ” said Idaeus. “Enter the city ‘just before the gates close’? You will be trapped!”
‘Deimas is being prudent,” observed Hicetaon, folding his arms and staring at Idaeus.
‘I agree,” Brutus said. “Deimas must be asking himself who is this man who arrives unannounced and says, ‘I am here to lead you into Troy’? I also would first make certain of my own safety.” He paused, dismissed the soldier, then studied each of his advisers’ faces in turn. “Membricus? Tell me your thoughts.
Does this response cast a shadow over your soul? Do the gods whisper ‘Caution!’ in your heart?”
‘No, Brutus. This message causes me no disquiet. Do what you will.”
Idaeus’ mouth folded in a tight line, and Brutus had to suppress a smile.
‘Then I will go,” he said. “It can do our cause no harm that I should study the defenses of both wall and gates from inside the city… and perhaps that was Deimas’ part intention.”
IN MIDAFTERNOON BRUTUS DRESSED HIMSELF IN THE garb of a simple farmer: a well-worn tunic of coarse weave belted at the waist with a leather strap, a woolen half cloak against the evening coolness, and leather sandals on his feet. He removed the gold and bronze rings from his fingers and ears, but left the golden bands of kingship on his limbs, blackening them with a liquid made of oil and ash so that they appeared as if they were made of worthless, stiffened leather. He rubbed a little dust into the otherwise clean and well-oiled black curls of his head, and some more over his hands and arms. He shaved, but only roughly, as would any farmer who had little time for the niceties of ablutions; his shadowy beard also helped to disguise his Trojan features (and for the first time in his life Brutus thanked the gods for his Latin mother, whose blood had diluted his Trojan appearance). At his belt he hung a pouch into which he placed some small vials of herbed oils, to present as gifts to his host, and over his shoulder he slung a larger rope sack containing wild onions, garlic, and a measure of dried figs, as if he intended to sell them within the city.
‘Do I look like a hero?” he asked Membricus, ready finally to make the journey to Mesopotama through the afternoon heat.
‘No,” Membricus replied with a half smile to take away any sting that might be construed in his words.
“You look like a forest brigand. I hope this Assaracus has the nerve to admit you to his house.”
BRUTUS APPROACHED MESOPOTAMA JUST BEFORE dusk. The two-hour walk through forest and rocky slopes from his ships’ anchorage point had been hot, but not as tiring as Brutus had feared it might be.