“That needed to be spoken, Brutus,” Corineus said, sitting down as Cornelia vanished into the gloom, “and it were easier said by a man who is a stranger to you than someone close. I meant no disrespect by it, not to you nor to any of yours. Cornelia has been a fool, but all of us here, all of us, have been fools at one time or another.”
“Cornelia is a murderess!” Membricus snapped.
“She had just discovered that her lover had been murdered, and she had just been forced into a marriage with the man she could think of only as his murderer. She repaid violence with violence, and I am not excusing that, I am simply understanding it.”
Membricus made as if to speak again, but Brutus laid a hand on his arm, and Membricus subsided.
“It was not welcome, what you said,” Brutus said, looking steadily at Corineus, “but I will respect your reason for saying it.”
Corineus nodded. “If my words have caused ill will and ill-feeling, then do remember that they were my words, and not those of Cornelia. And remember also that what she said following were the words of a wise woman, not those of a silly girl.”
“She has a fine champion in you,” Brutus said.
“She would be better,” Corineus said very softly, “in having a fine champion in you.”
“I think,” Hicetaon put in, “that we have spoken enough of guilt and youth and misdemeanours for this night. Troia Nova awaits us. Can we not discuss that?”
He finished on such a plaintive note that everyone laughed, the sound breaking the tension even if the merriment was a little forced.
“Well said,” Brutus remarked. “Troia Nova does await us, and all our mistakes and follies lie well behind us.”
“You actually intend to rebuild Troy in this land of Llangarlia?” Corineus said.
“Aye,” said Brutus. “I do.”
Corineus smiled, warm and friendly. “Then hate me or not for what I said earlier, Brutus, but I am much afraid that I am your man.”
“You want to join with me?”
“Oh, aye, I do!”
Brutus was not sure how to regard this. Earlier he would have greeted it with enthusiasm. Now…
“But surely,” said Brutus, “you are established and happy and free already, and from what you have said of your city I cannot think that any would want to leave it—”
“Ah, Brutus,” Corineus said, “I have not told you all. Some weeks ago a great earth tremor struck Locrinia during the night. Some buildings collapsed, and some people died, but the true horror was not realised until the next morning. Every building within the city, every single one, has been cracked so badly that none will stand for much longer. Within weeks, a month or so at the most, Locrinia will crumble into the bay, and it will be as if the city never existed.”
“You cannot rebuild?” Membricus said.
“Rebuild?” said Corineus. “No. The city is too badly damaged. Besides, who could want to rebuild when Brutus offers me Troy?”
He turned his attention back to Brutus. “Pray, do not allow your doubts make you refuse me,” he said. “I can be of great aid to you. Not only can I contribute ships, wealth, supplies and yet more Trojans to make your new Troy great, I have knowledge. Brutus, I know this land of which you speak.”
“Tell me,” Brutus said, now leaning forward himself.
“Blangan is a Llangarlian! A native. She may well be able to tell you all you need to know.”
“And Blangan is…?” Brutus said.
“Blangan is my wife,” Corineus said, and his voice was composed of such pride and love and tenderness that all of Brutus’ doubts dropped away.
“Blangan is Llangarlian,” Corineus continued. “She left when she was but fourteen, married to a merchant who died within six months, leaving her stranded in Locrinia.” Corineus gave an embarrassed half shrug. “What could I do but wed her myself? Someone had to save her from destitution.”
“And why am I thinking,” said Brutus with a grin, his humour now fully restored, “that this poor widowed woman was probably the most desirable creature you had ever set eyes on?”
Corineus shrugged, and smiled slightly. “That may have had something to do with it. But to the matter at hand. While you rest in Locrinia, repairing your ships and healing your people, Blangan can teach you the ways of the Llangarlians.” He laughed. “The gods drove you to me, Brutus! If the storm had not stopped you, and ripped masts from their beds in their keels, then you would have sailed past Locrinia in the dead of night, not knowing what aid awaited you within.”
Brutus looked about at his officers and friends. “Well, what say you? Should we welcome this Corineus into our midst, and take what aid and fellow Trojans he offers us?”
“Oh, we accept him,” Hicetaon said, glad that Brutus had not allowed Corineus’ earlier remarks to turn him against the man. “We welcome him gladly.”
“You have made quite the conquest,” Brutus said to Cornelia when he joined her on the bed within the cabin much later that night.
He waited for an answer, but there was silence. She lay with her back to him, only the rapidity of her breathing betraying her wakefulness.
Brutus propped himself on to an elbow and, with his free hand, toyed with a strand of her long, dark hair. It had become much softer with pregnancy, as slippery and fluid as honey, and with a seductive, natural scent.
“He has a wife,” he said softly. “A woman called Blangan. He loves her dearly.”
“And she him, I would think,” Cornelia said. She rolled over. “Brutus, I had no idea that Corineus would say what he—”
He slipped his hand over her mouth, stopping her words. “Why do we hate each other so much, my little wife? Why?”
She gently pushed his hand away from her mouth. “I do not—”
“Don’t dare to say to me that you do not hate me, Cornelia,” he said harshly, “for I would not believe that!”
Her mouth trembled, but she said nothing.
His eyes moved from her face to her body, and his hand he lifted and rested gently on her breast.
“If only,” he said. “If only…”
Then: “Go to sleep, Cornelia. We have all had a tiring two days.”
He rolled over and, his back to Cornelia, pulled the blankets over his shoulders.
She drew in a deep breath, keeping it steady with only the most strenuous of efforts, then closed her eyes as well.
It was a long time before she slept.
Because many of the fleet’s ships were so badly damaged, and the oarsmen needed longer breaks than they usually would after their ordeal during the storm, it took an extra half day longer than expected to reach Locrinia.
When they eventually approached at dusk of the fifth day after the storm, Brutus realised why Corineus had thought they would sail straight past if it had been night—as it probably would have been if they’d sailed untouched through the Pillars of Hercules. The city was visible from the ocean, but only barely. It was tucked into the southern shore of a bay whose only opening was a narrow, rocky strait. If a fleet had sailed north along the coast late at night when the citizens of Locrinia were asleep and all lights doused, then those aboard the fleet would never have known what they passed.
And, Brutus admitted to himself, he may not even have cared very much had he known. He had a destination, he was eager to reach it, and he would have ignored all distractions to achieve his goal. Only injury to his people and his ships had brought him Corineus and Blangan, both of whom might well be worth their weight in gold in aid and knowledge.
Locrinia was a medium-sized city of low buildings constructed in pale shades of sandstone and limestone and tiled in bright red and turquoise. It stretched from the southern shore of the bay halfway up the slopes of a massive mountain. At the edge of the city, neat fields ran up the mountain to the border of a close, dark forest that covered the greater part of the peak.
The city should have looked prosperous and comfortable, but here and there Brutus could see the mounds of rubble left by the earth tremor, and, in many other buildings, a horrible list as if they were shortly to join their crumbled fellows.
No wonder Corineus was so joyful to have Brutus appear. This city was surely doomed.
Corineus told Brutus that because of the state of the city, most of the Trojans would have to make do as best they could on their anchored ships. With luck, however, he could find accommodation for enough of them that the crowding aboard the ships would be lessened considerably. Corineus apologised, clearly embarrassed at his inability to house all the Trojans in accommodation ashore, but Brutus waved away his apologies; Corineus was already doing more than enough.
His embarrassment only mildly allayed, Corineus directed his warship in close to the stone wharf. As soon as it had docked he jumped down to the wharf, sending messages into the city to set people to finding accommodation for several hundred people at least, and directions to set sailors in small rowboats into the bay to guide the Trojan ships into suitable anchorage sites.
Then, as the gangplank was placed into position, Corineus boarded once again and escorted Cornelia and Brutus down to the wharf.
Cornelia looked pale, and her eyes were ringed with blue shadows as if she had not slept well, but she was composed and polite, thanking Corineus for his assistance in aiding her to the wharf. As soon as she had spoken, she moved away slightly, and Corineus allowed it, knowing the reason.
For a while Corineus stood with Brutus and Membricus watching the other Trojans disembark, then, catching sight of Cornelia’s wan face, said, “Can you leave Membricus and Hicetaon to continue the unloading of as many people as we can accommodate? I think it would be best if I took you, Cornelia, and Aethylla and her child and husband to my house, that the women may rest. It is but a short walk distant, and safe enough that you may all sleep well at night.”
“If your Blangan won’t fuss at the extra visitors,” Brutus said.
“She will adore you,” said Corineus, smiling, “and drive you to distraction with her chatter.” He bowed slightly in Cornelia’s direction. “And she will be delighted to have you to gossip with, Cornelia. I swear that before tomorrow morning has dawned, you will know all the lapses and blunders of Locrinia’s most upstanding citizens. Even, I fear, some of mine.”
He was rewarded with a smile from Cornelia, probably more at his attempt to cheer her than any eager anticipation of Blangan’s gossip, but it was enough for Corineus. “Come,” he said gently, and led the small group forward.
One of Locrinia’s wardens, a plump, cheerful man, bustled towards them, greeting Brutus and Cornelia effusively, and clapping his hands with joy at the sight of the massive fleet filling the bay. Corineus and Brutus passed a few words with him, then they were off, following Corineus up through the gently rising streets of the city.
“I have my house on this rise here,” Corineus said, leading them into a wide, paved street. One or two of the houses had fallen, and in the others Brutus and his companions could clearly see the wide cracks spreading up the walls.
“Here we are,” Corineus said, indicating a large house standing just before them. Made of a very pale pink stone, it had been built long and low with numerous large, open windows and graceful arches to allow the bay air to flow through its rooms and chambers.
It too had been cracked, and one archway had collapsed almost completely, but the walls were well propped, and the house looked solid enough, especially compared to some of its neighbours.
As they approached, a woman appeared in one of the archways. She stood there, as still as a rock pool, one hand on a pillar, her white linen robe blowing gracefully about her tall, slim form. Her hair was dark, her skin extremely pale, her features well drawn and strong.
Brutus took a step forward, a catch in his breath, then relaxed in disappointment.
This was not the woman of the vision, but, by the gods, she was very much like her.
She was tall, and shapely, and with the same dark hair and blue eyes, but her face had many lines worn by care, and Brutus knew that while she was younger than Corineus, she actually looked his elder. Life had tired her, somehow.
Most telling, however, was that this Blangan had none of the god-power that had been emblazoned about the other woman. She carried about her only the power of a woman who loved and was loved, not the power of the gods that the visionary woman wielded.
She walked to meet them, holding out her hands and her cheek to Corineus to be kissed. Then she greeted Cornelia, kissing her on her cheek, then Brutus, then Aethylla and her husband standing a step behind.
“Blangan,” said Corineus, “if I said to you that you might be going home to Llangarlia again, what would you say?”
Blangan’s face went completely expressionless, but in that instant before the veil came down, Brutus swore he saw a peculiar mix of terror and resignation in her eyes.
They had washed, settled in their chambers, and eaten (Membricus, Hicetaon and Deimas having joined them), and now it was late at night, but Brutus could not go to bed before he’d had a chance to speak with Blangan.
He sat with her, Corineus, Deimas, Hicetaon and Membricus on a sheltered portico overlooking the bay. Everyone else had gone to bed for the night—indeed, the city itself seemed lost in a languorous slumber as it spread out below them—and they finally had some quiet in which to talk. The warm air was very still, and the scent of a flowered climbing vine across the portico hung heavy and sweet about them.
“So,” said Blangan to Brutus, a nervous, fleeting smile across her face, “you wish to build your Troia Nova in Llangarlia?”
“I do so at the goddess’ wish, Blangan.”
“Not the goddess of Llangarlia’s wish,” said Blangan. She had dropped her gaze to her lap, and she fiddled with the tassel of her belt as it lay in her lap.
“Tell me of Llangarlia,” said Brutus.
“What can I say, where can I start?” Blangan took a deep breath, and lifted her eyes to stare over the bay.
Brutus did not like it that she wouldn’t look at him. “Will they welcome us?”
Now she did look at him, steady and sure. “I cannot know,” she said. “It has been over twenty-five years since I was last in Llangarlia. But they most certainly will not welcome me.”
Before Brutus could ask the obvious question, Corineus, wary-eyed, broke in.
“Brutus,” he said, “may I speak a little of Locrinia’s relationship with Llangarlia?” At Brutus’ nod he went on: “Llangarlia is not a closed country; many people trade with the Llangarlians. I and my people do, the states to the north of us do, the people of Crete even traded precious spices and gold for their tin and copper. But the Llangarlians do not encourage closeness with any outsiders.”
“Yet you married an outsider, a merchant,” Brutus said to Blangan.
“I was forced into the doing by my mother,” Blangan said. “I admit myself glad when my merchant husband died and Corineus,” she reached out to him and took his hand, “took me into his home and his bed.”
“Who is their king?” said Brutus. “What strength of swords does he command?”
“Llangarlia has no king.”
“How can this be? Every land has a chief, a king, a—”
She held up her hand. “Peace. There are many tribes, or Houses, and each House has its Mother.”
A Mother? Brutus frowned.
“But overall we defer to two people—the living representations of our gods Og and Mag. There is the Gormagog, who represents Og,” again something in Blangan’s manner made Brutus study her well, but whatever discomfort the name of the Gormagog caused her, she suppressed it well, “and there is the priestess of Mag, and we call her the MagaLlan.”
“This priestess of Mag, the MagaLlan. Is she a powerful woman, tall and beauteous? Is there a deep russet streak through her dark hair? Does she wield the power of the gods themselves? Is she a mother, bearer of several children?” Does she look like you? he wanted to ask, but didn’t.
“The MagaLlan is always a mother,” Blangan said. “It is part of her duty. But as to the rest of your questions…Brutus, when I left Llangarlia, the MagaLlan was my mother. The woman you describe sounds like my younger sister, Genvissa.” Blangan gave a slight shiver, as if she were cold. “In Llangarlian society it is always the youngest daughter who inherits the power of the Mother, or of the highest Mother, the MagaLlan. Not the son, as in Trojan society, nor even the eldest daughter.”
Genvissa, thought Brutus. I have a name for her! And this Blangan is her sister?
“The youngest inherits?” he asked. “How can this be so?”
“Why should the eldest inherit, whether son or daughter,” said Blangan, “when it is the youngest child who is the product of the mother’s maturity and life-wisdom?”
Brutus thought that sounded slightly naive—all knew the first-born was the strongest-born—but he left it alone. “And the Gormagog? Who is he? What manner of man is he?”
Blangan smiled very bitterly. “When I left Llangarlia the Gormagog was an ageing man,” she said, “and weaker than he’d ever been when he was in his prime. I cannot know what he is now.”
Brutus leaned back in his chair, and drank deeply of his wine. He was silent for many minutes, thinking of the woman of his vision, and of Blangan who seemed less than enthusiastic at the idea of going back to her homeland.
“Do you still speak the language of your birth?” he finally asked Blangan.
She bowed her head, and replied in something unintelligible.
He nodded wryly. “Will you teach it to me while my ships and people recover from the wild storm that so injured us?”
“I would be pleased. It is a simple language to master once you grasp its basic concepts. Brutus…” She paused, obviously uncertain whether or not to continue. “Brutus, many people have thought to conquer Llangarlia. They have marched into the mists surrounding the Veiled Hills, and they have never emerged again. Llangarlia is ancient, and unknowable…even to your gods. Be careful.”
“You don’t want go home, do you, Blangan?”
In answer, Blangan rose. “I should look in on your wife, Brutus, and make sure she is comfortable. I am sure that you and your companions have much to talk about with Corineus, despite the lateness of the hour. Enjoy my hospitality, Brutus. I give it with great pleasure.”