Gods' Concubine Page 14

  Judith looked at Saeweald, who stared in disbelief at the man, then she unhurriedly reached for her linen under-tunic and pulled it over her shoulders.

  “Your name, good man?” she said.

  The stranger’s mouth lifted in an admiring smile at her composure. He was a strikingly good-looking man of middle age. His long, black curly hair was pulled into a leather thong behind his neck, a few strands escaping to trail over his broad shoulders. His chest was broad and well muscled, his limbs long and strong. He wore nothing but a snowy white waistcloth threaded over a wide leather belt and leather-strap sandals.

  His face was stern and handsome, and not at all marred by the leather patch he wore over his left eye. His right eye was dark, gleaming with humour and power.

  It was not the stranger who answered Judith, but Saeweald.

  “Silvius,” he breathed, leaning forward so that Judith, now standing, could lend him her hand and aid him up.

  At the mention of that name, Judith’s eyes flew sharply to the man. Silvius? Brutus’ father? The man Brutus had murdered at fifteen in order to seize his heritage?

  “Aye,” the man said. “Silvius, indeed. It has been a long time, Loth, since we met within the dark heart of the Labyrinth.” His eyes slid down Saeweald’s body, marking the deformities. “My God, boy, does Brutus’ hand still mark you?”

  “As much as it marks you,” Saeweald said, his tone still cautious, but nodding towards the patch over Silvius’ empty left eye socket. Judith passed Saeweald his robe and he, too, clothed himself. “Silvius, what—”

  “What do I here?” Silvius’ face suddenly seemed weary, and he raised his eyebrows at a chair that stood to one side of the hearth.

  Saeweald nodded, and Silvius sat down with an audible sigh. “I am as trapped as you, Saeweald, and,” he looked at Judith, “as I suppose you are, my dear. I take it from your intimacy with Loth here—”

  “Saeweald,” Judith put in quietly.

  “Your intimacy with Saeweald here, that you, too, are reborn from that time when we all suffered at the hands of Brutus and that woman,” he spat the word out, “he tried to make the Game with?”

  “Aye,” she said. “My name was Erith then, and now I am Judith.”

  Silvius nodded, his expression still weary. “ Asterion is back.”

  “We know,” said Saeweald. “Silvius. What do you here? And how?”

  “Brutus trapped me at the heart of his Game with my murder,” Silvius said. “I am as trapped as any of you.”

  “But you seem flesh, not shade,” Saeweald said.

  Silvius grunted. “You’d be astounded at what has happened in the past two thousand years, my boy. I sat there within the heart of the Labyrinth, and somehow I took power from the Game. I am as much a player in the battle that is to come as either of you two are.”

  “But you cannot move from the Game,” Saeweald said. “You were trapped within its heart.”

  Silvius looked up at him, his one good eye seething with knowledge and power. “Who says I have moved from the Game?” he said quietly.

  Saeweald and Judith said nothing.

  “The Game was left unfinished,” Silvius went on. “It continued to attract evil…and it grew.”

  “Grew?” said Saeweald. He shared an appalled glance with Judith.

  “Oh, aye. Grew. Grew in power and knowledge and in magnitude, my boy. You think that the Game, the Labyrinth, occupies only the top of Og’s Hill—Lud Hill as now you call it—where my son first built it?”

  The other two were silent, staring at Silvius.

  Silvius’ mouth twisted. “Nay,” he said, very softly, and he threw his arm out, as though encompassing not only Saeweald’s chamber, but the whole Westminster complex. “The Game occupies the entire area of the Veiled Hills now, my boy. It has burrowed deep, indeed.”

  Then Silvius leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and looked at them intently. “I have had enough of this disaster my son helped construct. I feel partly responsible, and so I am here to help you.” He paused. “To help Caela.”

  Saeweald narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Caela?”

  “Oh, for the gods’ sakes, boy! You think me a fool? I know Caela is Cornelia-reborn, and I know how important she is to you, and to your Mag and Og besides. And I know she does not remember, and this she needs to do. Yes?”

  Silence.

  “And Caela is the only one who is likely to know where Mag truly is, yes?”

  More silence.

  “Yes, and yes again,” Silvius answered for them. “Caela needs to remember very badly, for if she does not then all of our causes are lost. Saeweald, perhaps all that Cornelia needs is something from her past life to jolt her into awareness.”

  “What?” said Saeweald, finally, grudgingly deciding to trust Silvius just a little bit. “What possibly remains from her previous life save want and need and hope?”

  Silvius grinned, holding Saeweald’s eye. “A bracelet,” he said.

  Saeweald frowned, but it was Judith who spoke. “Saeweald, you may have never seen it, but Cornelia had a bracelet, a beautiful thing of gold and rubies that she brought with her from her life as a princess of Mesopotama. She rarely wore it here in Llangarlia, but I know she looked upon it occasionally, remembering her life as a girl.”

  “Aye,” said Silvius, “that bracelet. What would happen, do you think, if we slipped it on her wrist again?”

  Silvius was still frowning. “And you know where it is?”

  Silvius nodded. “But to retrieve it safely I need you and whatever ancient magic of this land you still command. Saeweald, will you aid me?”

  “No,” Judith said, but it was already too late, for she could see the light in Saeweald’s eyes.

  ELEVEN

  Very late that night, when the moon had sunk and the streets of London were lost in silent stillness, two men on horseback approached London Bridge from Southwark.

  “They will not allow us to pass,” Saeweald muttered, squirming uncomfortably in the saddle. His mare, Maggie, was well used to her rider’s habitual wriggling, and strode on unperturbed.

  “Is that so?” said Silvius, his teeth flashing white in the darkness, and Saeweald saw him make a gesture with his left hand.

  “A sign of the Game,” Silvius said. “Look.”

  Ahead was a guardhouse that protected the entrance to the bridge. Normally four or five men stood night watch here, but as the horses approached Saeweald could see, through the open doorway into the dimly lit interior, that the watchmen slouched dozing around a brazier.

  “They shall not wake,” said Silvius. “And likewise with the guards who stand watch at the other end of the bridge. The way shall be open for us.”

  “You can manipulate the power of the Game?” Saeweald said, and Silvius glanced at him, hearing the distrust in his voice.

  “I was a Kingman too, remember? Yes, I can use parts of the Game’s power. But, believe me, Saeweald, I want what you want. To stop my son, at any cost, from completing the Game with his Darkwitch. I do not want him finding those bands and completing his horror.”

  Silvius visibly shuddered, and Saeweald relaxed slightly. “You look so much like him,” Saeweald said. “I am sorry if I remain on guard.”

  “I tried to help you before, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. Yes, you did,” Saeweald said, remembering how Silvius had tried to aid Loth when he’d challenged Brutus to battle within the heart of the Labyrinth. “I am sorry, Silvius.”

  Silvius nodded, accepting Saeweald’s apology, and led the way on to the bridge, which was largely built over with houses and shops leaving only a narrow, barely lit tunnel for travellers on foot and horse to walk. The horses’ hooves echoed loudly in the enclosed space, and Saeweald glanced back at the guardhouse.

  There was no movement.

  “They remain unaware,” said Silvius.

  From the bridge they turned right along Thames Street (Saeweald looking curiously at the ston
es of Gog and Magog sitting inscrutable at the London-side entrance to the bridge), pushing their horses into a trot and then a canter.

  “We have little time,” said Silvius. “It will be dawn in a few hours.”

  “Where do we go?” Saeweald said, having to raise his voice above the clattering of hooves.

  Silvius nodded ahead. There, rising out of the gloom, was the White Mount which occupied the eastern corner of London. At its top rose a dilapidated stone and timber structure: a lighthouse, constructed by the Romans almost a thousand years earlier. As they neared it, Silvius pulled his horse back to a walk, and waited for Saeweald to do the same.

  “Aha,” said Saeweald, in answer to his own question, knowing now where it was that Silvius led him.

  “The Romans built this,” Silvius said. “You know that?”

  Saeweald nodded.

  “The Romans were a people from the same world as the Trojans, although from a later time when the mysteries of the Game had been forgotten. They were drawn to this land and to this place by the siren song of the Game, although they did not recognise it. On this mound, one of your sacred hills, they built a great lighthouse, a beacon tower.”

  “But the tower is of no importance.”

  “It is not. You are right.”

  “It is what lies beneath it.”

  “Aye.”

  “The well,” Saeweald said. The Romans had built their lighthouse atop the White Mount which, in Saeweald’s other lifetime, held a sacred well. Brutus had caused the opening of the well to be covered over when he built his palace there, but Saeweald supposed the well was still sunk into the White Mount, guarding its mysteries.

  But what was the bracelet doing down the well?

  “Cornelia was buried there,” Silvius said softly. “Did you not know? Ah, of course not, for you were dead many years prior to her death. When Brutus died and Cornelia took her own life, their sons carried them to the well, and buried them within it.”

  “And the bracelet was buried with her,” said Saeweald.

  “Indeed.”

  The horses ascended the grassy slopes of the mount, towards the derelict tower, Saeweald clinging to Maggie’s saddle and studying the tower as she climbed. The Romans had built the tower of white ragstone, well-buttressed and -founded. It had once soared over thirty paces into the air, but during the past nine hundred years the top courses of stonework had tumbled down to lie in untidy heaps by the foundations, and the highest rooms were open to the night air. The Romans had used this tower to watch the river approaches to the city, and to set at the top of the structure a beacon to warn both London and surrounding areas of any danger that approached. Now it was used for little more than as a place for boys to hide from their mothers, and for those who still followed the old ways to light fires during the solstices.

  At the tower’s base Silvius and Saeweald dismounted from their horses, leaving the reins untied so they could nibble the grass. Once inside, Silvius led Saeweald to the tower’s lowest rooms. The approaches to the basements were half obscured with tumbled beams and stones, and Saeweald reluctantly had to allow Silvius to aid him over the obstructions.

  Eventually they came to the very lowest level of the tower where stood an uneven floor of large stone slabs.

  Here Silvius dropped his cloak to one side.

  “Cornelia’s and Brutus’ corpses are beneath those slabs?” Saeweald asked.

  “Aye.”

  “And you want me to lift those slabs?”

  “No. Your power I shall need later.” With one hand Silvius made a gesture over the stone flagging. “This is but a slight alteration to the magic which would have raised the flower gate,” he said. “Never forget that once I, too, was—”

  “A Kingman. Yes, Silvius. I remember.”

  Then Saeweald gasped, for as he spoke several of the flagstones wavered and then vanished, revealing a great chasm.

  Silvius stepped close, his feet careful at the edge of the chasm, and peered down.

  “Gods,” he murmured. “I had not expected this to be so beautiful.”

  Saeweald looked away from Silvius and back to the well, slowly drawing closer to it. The way opened into a rough circular shape that spiralled downwards in great twists of rough rock. Far, far beneath rippled an emerald pool of water, and Saeweald knew that the depths of this pool were unknowable, even to such as himself. As he watched the waters surged, their waves lapping higher and higher up the wild walls of the well, as if trying to reach him. A dull roar echoed in his ears.

  Shaken by the power of the raging waters, Saeweald studied the rock walls of the well. They did not consist of the finished masonry of human hands, but instead twisted and spiralled down in wild, sharp ledges. This was a savage and untamed cleft, a formidable place of magic and power.

  Saeweald’s face sagged in astonishment. “I can’t believe the well still retains this much power. Gods, Silvius, did Brutus and Cornelia’s sons see this when they buried their parents?”

  “No,” said Silvius. “They saw only ordinariness, and a convenient place to rest their parents.”

  “How in all that’s good and merciful,” Saeweald said, “did Brutus and Cornelia’s sons manage their way down?”

  “The well made it easy for them,” said Silvius. “All they and the mourners saw were smooth, even courses of stones for the walls, a dribble of a puddle far below, and an easy flight of steps that wound its way around the side of the well. To them this place was nothing more than a source of water for Brutus’ palace, and not a very reliable one at that.”

  “I have never seen the well so vibrant,” Saeweald said.

  “You know it as a vital part of this land,” said Silvius. “But did you know that there are others in the world?”

  Saeweald finally dragged his eyes from the well to Silvius. “No.”

  “There was one like this in my world—we called it a god-well. It was the heart of the city of Atlantis, which was itself the heart of Thera. When the Darkwitch Ariadne destroyed Thera, she also destroyed its god-well. ”

  “Thank the gods Genvissa didn’t manage to destroy this one,” said Saeweald.

  “And to why I need you here,” said Silvius. “The well is open now, and who knows who can feel it beside you and I? Saeweald—”

  “I cannot go down,” Saeweald said, looking again at the rough walls. It was not the magic which deterred him, but the simple fact that his twisted body would not allow him to even try. “You need me to stay here, and guard the entrance to the well with whatever power I can summon while you retrieve the bracelet. In case—”

  “Aye,” said Silvius. “I will be as fast as I can, but still…” He stepped close to Saeweald, and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “One day, my friend, you will be whole again. Then you may go down.”

  “Be careful,” said Saeweald.

  Silvius nodded, then dropped to the edge of the well, carefully lowering himself down to the first of the twisting ledges. Above him, Saeweald stripped off his robe and, naked, the light from the well playing over the antler tattoo on his chest and shoulders, began to hum a strange melody.

  Within moments the entrance to the well had clouded over, and then vanished, as if all that Saeweald stared at was a rough, uneven flooring of gravel.

  Silvius glanced above to make sure that Saeweald had concealed the entrance, grinned, then concentrated on the climb. The way down was difficult, but not impossible, and Silvius’ pace quickened once he became more confident in finding his hand and footholds.

  After some time had passed Silvius spied what he was looking for: an opening in the rock wall, partway around the well from where he clung to a ledge. The roaring from the waters—still far below—had now increased greatly in volume, and the rocks had grown ever more slippery with condensation, and Silvius was more than glad he had found the entrance to the burial chamber. Even more careful now that his destination was in sight, Silvius concentrated on climbing along the rock walls to the opening.r />
  In a few short minutes he breathed a sigh of relief and leaped lightly down to the floor of the passageway. He made a gesture with his hand, and immediately the passageway was filled with a soft, golden light.

  Unlike the rock walls of the well, the passageway had smooth walls and an even, dustless rock floor, and Silvius wasted no time in striding down its length.

  It was only some thirty or thirty-five paces long, leading directly into a rounded chamber that looked as though it had been water-carved from the living rock.

  In the centre of the chamber were two waist-high rock plinths, some three feet wide and seven long, and on each of these plinths rested cloth-wrapped figures.

  The corpses of Brutus and Cornelia.

  Silvius halted the instant he stepped inside the chamber, staring at the plinths.

  A sardonic smile creased his face as he walked to the plinth that bore the larger and taller of the cloth-wrapped corpses. He lifted his hands and rested them gently, almost hesitantly, on the wrappings that covered the corpse’s head. “So much power that you have wasted, Brutus.”

  Silvius drew in a deep breath, then raised both his head and his hands from the corpse of his son.

  “Cornelia,” he said, as he stared at the corpse which lay on the other plinth.

  “Poor Cornelia,” he said very slowly. “Poor, dead Cornelia. Used and abused by all about you.” He walked over. “Cornelia,” Silvius said again, “is it time to wake?”

  He grinned to himself. “Why, I do believe so.” Then he reached down with both hands to the cloths that wove about her breasts and, sliding his fingers between them, tore them apart. “Cornelia!”

  Something fell from amid the bandages, then toppled from the plinth and clattered to the floor where it lay glinting.

  Silvius drew in a deep breath, then leaned down and picked it up.

  “Gods,” he whispered, “the Greeks always knew how to make a fine piece of jewellery.”

  In his palm nestled an exquisitely worked gold and ruby bracelet.

  Then, suddenly, Silvius’ head jerked upwards.

  Saeweald felt it before he actually heard or saw anything.