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

‘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 harbor 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, countersunwise,” Brutus said, “dragging poor dead Hector with 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 Mesopotamia 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 toward the gates. The Trojans were still ensconced in their homes, now hopefully following directions to disguise their persons into the most complete imitation of the Dorian demeanor 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 that were still 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 stone-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.”

‘But 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 uses 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 weapons racks, 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 the next 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 chiseled into the stone slabs. The initial 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 center 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. This was Artemis’ test, he knew it as certainly as he knew he still breathed.

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 him 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.

Wfco else would dare the black heart of the labyrinth ?

And then let it walk at his back into the daylight?

ecevejM ‘I NOON, AS TROJAN MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN began to file from their homes, a shout 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 bake houses, but already it had done its worse damage—igniting panic among a citizenry who well knew that a fire within the tightly packed dense housing of a walled city was death incarnate.

BRUTUS TOOK THE BRUSH AND THEN THE PAIL BRIM ful of hot pitch from the soldier—who stood a long moment staring at the labyrinth on the floor of the subchamber 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.