Conall V by David H. Millar

Author:David H. Millar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: David H. Millar
Published: 2021-06-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

395 B.C.—Massalia

Banished by Conall. Likely on Mórrígan’s “people to suffer a lingering and painful death” list. Bored and without direction. Gold running like sand through restless fingers. Worried about their brother, Tadhg. Such was the temper of Craiftine and Fionnbharr Ó Cuileannáin. Added to this, the persistent furry mouths, sour stomachs, and thumping headaches from increasingly cheaper beer and gut-rotting wine did little to improve their moods. Craiftine plucked a few chords on his harp. It raised a cheer and elicited a few coins from those around him but did little to ameliorate his demeanour. The pleasure of playing had long been dulled by the necessity to earn an income.

For his part, Tadhg sat apart from his brothers. His attention was focused solely on the brothel’s lithe serving girl and whore. The girl was named Tisiphone, and there was a name to ponder for those who enjoy puzzling over omens. She was the outcome of the brief coming together of an Etruscan sailor and a Greek whore. Tisiphone never knew her father. Probably, he never knew she existed.

Her mother’s care for her was ephemeral. The lady’s journey into disease, eventual madness, and a fatal, and perhaps deliberate, fall from Massalia’s Temple of Apollo onto the rocks below did little to discourage her daughter’s career choice. Youth always considers itself, if not immortal, then immune to the trials of the adults around them.

Tisiphone was little more than fifteen summers but was wiser and more worldly than Tadhg. Silver and gold bought her favour and her body. She danced to please and serve all, yet Tadhg only perceived himself in her eyes. His moods swung like a pendulum from euphoria to despair. Behind her, the ghost of another whore—the tragic Laoise—hovered. Black blood seeped from the gaping wound that pierced her chest. The apparition’s face constantly switched between anger, pity, and disappointment at her lover’s betrayal. To escape the spectre’s judgment, Tadhg closed or averted his eyes. Neither was successful and so guilt crushed him.

“We have to do something.”

“Can you be more specific, Fionnbharr?” The tall, blond warrior huffed at his brother.

“Our economic situation is untenable.” Fionnbharr scratched at a flea bite that was just beyond his reach. Craiftine chuckled at his brother’s discomfort—until he too felt an ominous itch. Like yawning, once initiated, the act perpetuated itself. Curses and glares from the other tables soon followed. “Much as we find the idea distasteful, life as a mercenary would give us gold... and options.” Craiftine shook his head in an unspoken “No.” Fionnbharr continued, but on the subject that he really wanted to discuss. He nodded to Tadhg and then Tisiphone. “This is unhealthy and can’t go on. There is no assassin’s blade to drive this vessel onto the rocks.”

“She is undoubtedly desirable. She’s also highly skilled at her jobs—all of them.” Fionnbharr glared at his sibling. Craiftine shrugged. “She needs to work, like anyone.” The harpist noted the subject of their contemplation, sashaying around the tables with a large platter of food and drinks.

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