Hades’ Daughter. Book One of the Troy Game by Sara Douglass

But perhaps Brutus’ own sense of excitement and purpose had rid his body of any tiredness it might have felt. For fifteen empty years, ever since his exile from Alba on the Tiber, Brutus had been wandering the central Mediterranean, seeking some sense of “home.” He’d met up with small bands of exiled

Trojans, many of whom had joined his band of warriors, and he and his band had fought as mercenaries in the constant intercity struggles and feuds that gripped the disintegrating Mediterranean world.

But he’d never found a home. Never found a place where he felt any sense of belonging. Never found a true sense of purpose.

Now, since Artemis’ visit, all had changed. Now he had purpose, a home to aspire to, and power beyond anything he’d dared hope for, if the goddess was to be believed.

And it was he, not his father, nor his grandfather, nor even his noble but ultimately luckless great-grandfather Aeneas, but he who was given the task of rebuilding Troy.

For fifteen years Brutus had wandered, fifteen years since that terrible (wonderful) day when he had taken the kingship bands from his dead father’s limbs. He’d taken a great risk that day—and had been exiled for it—but now that risk had been justified and rewarded.

He looked at Mesopotama as it rose before him. Membricus might mutter O about shadows, but all Brutus saw was the opportunity to prove conclusively to Artemis that he was fit for her trust and belief.

Fit to rule over Troy.

MESOPOTAMA SAT ON A HIGH HILL SOME ONE HUN dred paces south of the River Acheron and some eight hundred paces north of where the river emptied into the bay. The walled city encompassed the entire hill, although a scattering of hovels, workshops, and tanneries sprawled unprotected beyond the walls. Brutus looked closely at the hovels, and saw that the women wandering in and out of doorways, and the children who played in the dust, were Dorians rather than Trojans, confirming his earlier belief that the Trojan slaves lived inside the city.

The Trojan slaves likely lived in the houses of their masters (most probably crowded into windowless, cramped rooms in basements) or in hovels set against the interior of the city’s walls where space and light were at a premium.

He adjusted the sack over his shoulder as he paused to rest, leaning from one foot to the other so that any observer would think him merely tired, and studied the city as best he could. Most of the houses inside the walls, leading up to the civic buildings and the king’s palace at the very top of the hill, were well constructed in pale dressed stone with guttered roofs of red tile. The city walls themselves were solid stone, the height of five men and, from what Brutus could see, almost as thick.

His eyes watchful now, Brutus resumed his walk toward the city gates, marking their construction and defenses as he neared.

The gates, still open, were of reinforced thick planks of cypress, barred with bronze and hung so that when closed they would give little purchase to attackers.

The outer gates opened into a narrow, dark roadway that broached the ten-pace-thick walls: anyone who managed to penetrate the outer gates would suffer heavily from the missiles of defenders positioned high above.

Beyond this, on the inner face of the wall, were another pair of gates, almost as solidly built as the outer pair.

Once at the outer gates, Brutus was stopped by a guard who seemed more than half asleep with

boredom: Brutus smiled to himself—if his ships had been noticed and reported, the guard would have been far more alert. The guard spoke to him, asking his business, and Brutus, hanging his head so that his features remained largely hidden in the shadow of the wall, replied in his best rustic Greek, saying that he had some dried figs and wild onions to trade for some town-made pots for his wife.

The guard, uncaring of either figs or pots or any other doings of peasants, nodded Brutus through, observing as he passed that at this late hour he’d need to find himself a bed for the night until the gates reopened in the morning.

Brutus acknowledged him with a wave as he trudged through the initial defensive alley, then glanced to either side as he passed through the inner gates.

As he’d theorized, the narrow spaces between wall and the lower blocks of Dorian houses and tenement buildings were packed with poorly built and thinly thatched hovels. And even with that brief glance, Brutus could see several women and children moving in the shadows between wall and tenement buildings… women and children with the distinctive features of Troy.

His people.

Dampening down his excitement—time enough for that once he’d managed to secure their freedom—Brutus walked farther into the city, moving higher through the streets to where he supposed Assaracus’ house stood.

The city was clearly wealthy, and this pleased Brutus; the pickings would be good. The streets were paved and guttered in stone—a rare luxury. The city’s Dorian citizens, now engaged in their final few tasks for the day before the evening set in, were well garbed in clothes that made use of fine materials; Brutus even saw two women wearing robes made of rare wild silks. The houses were indeed well built and maintained, and the glimpses inside that Brutus gained through several open doors showed fine interiors, decorated with vivid paints and tiles and even, in one instance, gilding.

‘A rich city, indeed,” Brutus murmured to himself, pausing at a street corner to stare about with what he hoped would be taken for the wide-eyed wonder of a countryman.

All well for his purpose.

He turned left at the street corner, walking up the center of an emptying street that led toward the northern quarter of the city. As he climbed, the houses became larger and grander, clearly the abodes of wealthy and important citizens. Many of them were gated and walled, mini-fortresses within the larger city fortress.

Palaces, almost, rather than houses.

Brutus’ curiosity about Assaracus grew even stronger. Who was this man, clearly wealthy and influential, and even more clearly Greek, to be so allied with the Trojan slaves?

eigbG MESOPOTAMA, WESTERN GREECE d^LRUTUS CLIMBED THE STREET FOR A FEW MOR minutes, the way becoming ever steeper and the houses o either side more palatial, until he came to what was clear the northernmost point of the walls. Here the street ended in a wide com High walls surrounded the semicircular court, behind which rose grand house All gates but one were tightly bolted against the coming night.

To this gate Brutus turned, noting without surprise that it belonged to tl house at the northernmost point of the walls. He approached, wondering wh awaited him behind the darkened angle of the partly open solid wood gate.

As he stepped up to the gate, there was a movement inside, and a serva emerged, his head bowed.

“Have you figs for the master?” he asked, his voi low. He spoke in Dorian Greek, a rough but easily understandable dialect the sweeter southern language of the Peloponnese.

‘Aye,” replied Brutus, using the code that had been passed to him. “B they are of unusual taste, having come from far away.”

The servant bowed, accepting his answer, then opened the door fully.

Behind it waited a short man of solid build. He was in early old age, 1 face lined, and his nose prominent amid his sunken cheeks. He was dress plainly—his tunic of poor quality linen but of a good cut—yet stood with’tbearing of a man in authority. His gray hair was still thick but was cut in unusual fashion—the left side hung free but only to his cheek whereas the ri| side was braided and hung almost to his shoulder.

Brutus, frowning over the hair, nevertheless knew immediately who must be… and, knowing that, knew what the hairstyle signified. “Deima he said, and inclined his head.

‘You are Brutus,” Deimas said, inclining his own head, although with i ticeably less respect than Brutus had given him. “A Trojan… apparentl}

welcome you to Mesopotama, and to the house of Assaracus who waits inside to greet you. You have intrigued us greatly, with your arrival and the”—he paused, a small derisive smile playing about his mouth—”tone of the greeting you sent to me. It is a long time since I have heard such arrogance.”

‘Then perhaps my arrival is most timely, indeed, Deimas, if you so forget your heritage. Now, I have walked far, and my feet and face are dusty. May I take advantage of the hospitality of this house?”

In answer Deimas stepped aside, indicating that Brutus should enter before him.

THE ATRIUM OF THE HOUSE WAS WELCOMING, COOL, and well lit with oil lamps against the encroaching dusk. Rush mats, woven into intricate designs, had been spread across the stone floor, and the walls were painted with vivid blues, reds, and golds into scenes of rustic idylls. Just inside the entrance and to one side there was a small but finely built altar, and Brutus paused to make brief obeisance to the gods before he walked into the atrium proper.