Hades Daughter by Sara Douglass Page B

Melanthus.
    Eight paces away, Melanthus’ mouth lifted in a knowing smile as he beheld me, and he shifted, aroused.
    He would be mine within the week. I knew it.
    Suddenly happy, I relaxed, slipping away from my provocative pose. My mind slipped into one of my frequent fantasies about my life with Melanthus: the long, hot nights spent in wild abandon in our bed; the children I would bear him (many strong and courageous sons…I would not waste his time nor my strength on mere daughters); the extravagant feasts and celebrations we would preside over when he was my consort; the epic poems Melanthus would compose in my honour; the…
    “What is this?”
    So startled I could not repress a small jump, I looked to my father, Pandrasus. He stood before his throne on the raised dais of the megaron, one of his legs thrust back as if to retain contact with his golden throne, a piece of somewhat tatty parchment in his hand.
    His shoulders were back, and stiff, as if in affront. His belly was thrust forward, as if in challenge, and his face was flushed, his eyes bright with outrage. On the wrist of the hand which held the offending parchment gleamed the thick gold and ruby bracelet of his office, a larger and only slightly richer version of the bracelet that encircled my wrist.
    He looked magnificent—all the women in the chamber must have been set a-trembling, and even I felt my tongue circle about my lips in appreciation, but I managed to turn my mind away from my father’s undoubted sexual appeal (besides, what was it when compared to Melanthus’ youthful beauty and prowess?). When I was young, a mere four or five, a prophetess had said I would marry a great king andbear him many children, but that great king was surely not my father. She must have seen Melanthus…perhaps in our bed, getting one of those many children on my body.
    My mind threatened to veer off towards yet another fantasy about my cousin, but then my father shouted again, and I forced my mind back to the matter at hand.
    “ What is this? ”
    Several servants cowered before my father, falling to their knees, and the soldiers about the walls of the megaron had stiffened, hands to their swords.
    My father waved the parchment about, still shouting. I had no idea what it contained, but it was undoubtedly the reason my father had summoned his court early this day. I hoped it would not detain us long, for I would draw Melanthus into a private corner and test just how deep his desire ran.
    I glanced again at Melanthus. I saw that he had eyes for no one else but me, and the linen of his waistcloth bulged most promisingly.
    Perhaps he would be mine before the morning was out.
    “Listen!” my father said, and began to read.
    “I, Brutus, leader of all those who survived the fall of Troy, send greetings to Pandrasus, king of the Dorian Greeks in Mesopotama. I am come to demand that you immediately free all Trojans from your slavery, for I find it intolerable that you should treat them in any way other than that which their nobility demands. Be moved to pity them, and bestow upon them their former liberty and grant them permission to live wheresoever they please. Furthermore, as example of your grand benefice, I demand that you shall grant your former slaves the means to remove themselves from Mesopotama…five score of ships, well stocked with food, water, wine and cattle, that they might begin their new lives far away from here in grand manner. I await your decision in the forests to the east of Mesopotama, knowing that you will do what is best for your people, and your own greatness.”
    I paid all this little attention. It had nothing to do with me…Melanthus was all that mattered.
    My father finished with the detestable letter, then threw back his head and roared with laughter.
    “I have heard of this Brutus,” he said. “Cornelia, shall I tell the court of what I know?”
    Startled by the direct question, I gathered my thoughts. “Of course,” I said,