An excerpt from timeo Danaos et dona ferentis

Prologue

“Praise the gods – a boy! Your first-born is a son, my lady!”

The lady rested a moment, still squatting on the birthing-stool, and allowed her maid to wipe her face and smooth back the tangles of her dark hair. She scarcely heard the chatter of the midwife as the babe was washed and wrapped in linen cloth embroidered with silver thread. Swaddling clothes fit for a king, and a king he would become one day if she had anything to do with it.

“Should I tell my lord?” asked the maid. “He has been most anxious these past few hours - full concerned for your well-being.”

The lady choked back a laugh. “Him, concerned for my well-being? Oh, surely.” Her voice, low and musical, became sharper: “Tell him nothing.”

“But, my lady -”

“Am I not still mistress in my own house?” the lady snarled, turning on her maid with such fury that the girl tripped on the hem of her gown and fell sprawling onto the floor.

Content that the maid knew her place, the lady continued, “I will tell him myself, when I am ready.”

Wary of her anger, the midwife finished tucking the last fold of linen into place and lifted the babe from the table. She had attended many births and seen many reactions from new mothers, but this one troubled her. The lady had not called immediately for her son, nor had she ordered him to be taken away. It was as if the babe had not been born at all, but was merely a curiosity to his mother.

The midwife was sure that, once the lady held her child in her arms, everything would be made right. She picked up the babe and carried him towards his mother, offering him out with a broad smile. “Here, my lady – your son; and a fine healthy man he is.”

The lady reached out and took the little bundle, holding it gingerly at arm’s length. When the midwife tried to correct her, encouraging her to hold the babe cradled against her breast, the lady gave her such a fierce look that the midwife stepped back in silence.

“You may go. Both of you,” the lady said.

Her maid tried to protest: “But you will need attending to - the birth-blood must be cleaned, and you should bathe, and the after-birth…”

The lady rose from the stool and let her stained gown fall to cover her legs. “I am quite capable of taking care of such things by myself. You are dismissed.”

The maid and midwife bowed, and then hurriedly removed themselves from the chamber. When they had gone, the lady went to the window and, holding her son to her body with one arm, she unlatched the shutter and let in the fresh autumnal air. The breeze, scented with dying roses and crinkling thyme, stirred the atmosphere of the chamber and let the pain and anger of the birth flow away.

“My son.”

She tried the words out loud, tilting her arms to let the breeze play across the babe’s face. He blinked, his eyes sticky, but made no sound. Indeed, apart from the small snuffle that he’d produced at the moment of his birth, the babe had remained silent. She wondered if this was common, trying to summon up an emotion for the child; but all she could feel was detachment, a vague knowledge that she should care for this creature that had crawled from her womb in so much blood and pain.

The lady touched a finger to the babe’s face, stroking his petal-soft cheek and his tiny nose. She thought she detected some resemblance to herself in the colour of his hair and the shape of his eyes. Wanting to see him look at her, the lady unwrapped the linen and pinched the babe’s exposed arm. Immediately, he opened his eyes wide – they were a hazy shade of copper, not truly golden yet, she noticed with disappointment – and he screamed at her.

She smiled. His cries, discordant though they were, held something in them that she recognised. “You are truly my son,” she said, and bent to kiss his forehead. He quieted at that, staring up at her solemnly, and then he turned his head, wriggling inside the tight-bound cloth to look back into the darkness of the chamber.

The lady laughed, delighted with such evidence of precociousness, and she moved from the window to face her visitors.

Three tall maidens stood shrouded in the gloom. They wore identical robes of pale shining white, their heads modestly covered, while around their arms and wrapped about the waist of the second maiden was a long woollen cloth dyed red. Thus joined, they paced as one towards the lady. Each maiden held an object in her hands: the first, a spindle; the second, a measuring-staff; the third, a pair of shears.

The lady sank to her knees in acknowledgement of the status of her guests, and greeted them with the deference that their age and wisdom demanded. Then she held up her son, awaiting their judgement on his fate.

Stillness hung quiet over the chamber as the first maiden drew upon her spindle, teasing and twisting the golden thread. The lady watched hungrily, catching her breath at each knot or tug that marred the perfection of the thread. Some of the knots were inconsequential; others were bigger, tangled and fraying, and the maiden could not seem to unpick the thread to make it lie flat. She continued to spin, handing the beginning of the thread to the second maiden.

Crouched on the floor, the lady hugged the babe close to her breast and watched as the second maiden held up the shining golden skein and began to measure it against her staff. One full length, then another, and another… The lady moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, quickly calculating how many years were passing through the hands of the second maiden. She held her son so tight that he mewled in complaint, and at that sound, the three maidens paused in their task.

They ventured closer, and now the lady could hear the whisper of their gowns across the floor. A faint trace of ambrosia glimmered from the folds of the red cloth that bound them together, and the lady inhaled greedily. She sat back on her heels, holding out her babe for the maidens to admire, scanning their impassive faces for some sign of favour.

The three maidens bent low over the child, each in turn whispering in his ear. Although the lady strained to listen, she could not hear what the maidens said to her son. The babe kicked inside his wrappings, blowing a bubble that the third maiden gently wiped away with a corner of their wrap.

The lady took no offence at the rebuke, and was instead content with a grateful smile as the maidens moved away and resumed their work.

Only when there was a pool of golden thread lying measured at their feet did the third maiden lift her shears. The lady held her breath as the final length was calculated – already her son had a lifespan that far exceeded any normal allotted time – and then, with careful deliberation, the third maiden chose a point on the thread held before her, and she cut it.

The lady sighed, relaxing her tight grip on the babe; and then she realised that the golden thread had not been completely severed. The third maiden cut it again, and when the shears were opened there was a murmur of disbelief - the thread still held. Twisted, frayed, only the most slender filament holding it together – but nevertheless, it still held.

The third cut did it. The thread fluttered to the floor; the trailing end swiftly reclaimed onto the spindle while the second maiden leaned forwards to take up the measured lengths. She approached the babe, who followed the glittering movement of the golden thread with fascination, and then she looped the skein around him until it bit tighter than the swaddling clothes.

The lady waited, curious to see how her son would take his destiny. At first he fought, wailing at the feel and weight of the thread around his body, and then he only struggled silently. Later he turned his head from side to side, his eyes blazing; if he had had teeth, the lady was convinced that he would have tried to bite through the thread. Later still he grew restful, cocooned in gold. Only the gleam of his expression gave his mother any indication of what he was thinking, and she was pleased with what she saw.

When the babe was completely quiet, his eyes watchful, the second maiden touched his head briefly and the golden skein vanished. She met the lady’s gaze with a blank look, and stepped back to join her sisters. As one, they inclined their heads before drawing low their hoods, veiling themselves; and as one, they faded back into the gloom.

Laughter bubbled out of the lady as she cradled the child, laughter as pure and sweet as a mountain stream. She carried him out triumphantly to the great hall, where her lord was pacing back and forth; and she held up the babe.

He ran to her, trying to see the child. He did not ask how she had fared. The babe was the only thing that mattered to him.

“A son!” the lord exclaimed joyfully.

The lady held the babe protectively, and she smiled. “My son, lord Odysseus.”