The Ivory Gate

By Julian Barr

Shatter the peace.
Summon the Furies.
The Underworld awaits…

Realising his quest for a homeland is not complete, Aeneas must forsake happiness and love to lead his people into the mist-shrouded land of Italia. The words of prophecy say this is where the children of Troy belong. Yet the fiery Princess Lavinia will not allow Aeneas to settle in her country and rallies her people to war. Facing an impossible choice, Aeneas must descend to the world of the dead to learn a dark truth. No longer able to escape his destiny, Aeneas will become what he has always feared.

The next instalment in a trilogy based on Virgil’s epic poetry, Ashes of Olympus: The Ivory Gate is a tale of war, sacrifice and triumph.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Odyssey Books
• Release date: Oct 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925652956

Book preview

Copyright © Julian Barr 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Odyssey Books in 2018

www.odysseybooks.com.au

ISBN: 978-1-922311-00-9 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-925652-95-6 (ebook)

Cover design by Chris Shepherd

Illustrations by Andrew Law

Map by Linc Morse

This one’s for Chris. Thanks for sticking with me through the whole bloody thing!

Chapter 1

Eyes in the dark.

Hera seldom caught sight of those eyes and the glimpses were never more than fleeting. She had felt a gaze upon her that pierced the cosmos. Even in this bodiless state, it made her feel naked.

Zeus was watching.

The goddess stretched out her mind, tracking his presence through the realm of the One. Never again would he strike her. He was cruel; she was strong. With her thoughts, she commanded him to leave this place.

But he was already gone, had fled her domain the moment she discovered him. As usual, the self-styled king of heaven sought shelter on Earth. She was alone once more, had this entire plane to herself. Hera seethed with silent anger. There was no blaming Zeus for maintaining a watchful peace, though she was certain he took pleasure in unnerving her.

Sometimes Hera too was tempted to visit the human world and ensure the devotees in her kingdom flourished. Like any other god, she thrived on prayer. The temptation had been strong, yet she always managed to resist. The feud had long since passed. There was no reason to suspect anything amiss. Once she had clashed with Zeus’s underling Aphrodite, but that time was gone. Her precious Elissa and that boy of Aphrodite’s had sealed the breach. Their union had overturned the prophecies of the knave Apollo. Zeus’s dark empire would never rise, so long as his chosen race and hers remained unified. It was not a perfect solution, but what fool would choose war over peace?

The goddess surrendered herself to the One, absorbed the adoration of her devotees. The prayers flowed sweet as nectar. All was well. No point dirtying her hands digging at the root of the problem.

Yet the calling to return would not cease. She brushed it aside, that transient craving. The idea of taking a human shape again made her sick in the spirit. Even if there were times when she missed being able to make power dance from her fingertips. A guilty pleasure, but undeniable. Once more the impulse clawed at her, refused to be dismissed. Where did it come from? She stilled her mind, allowed the energies of thought and spirit to flow through her.

The calling had a voice. A female voice, distant and familiar. ‘Come to me, Hera, queen of the gods.’

Athena. Of all the Twelve, why would the goddess of wisdom seek an audience?

Hera detested the idea of plunging back into that lower plane, though she saw little choice. There would be no contentment until her curiosity had been sated. And surely there would be no harm in having a taste of supremacy again. She gathered herself, sought the tiny gap between realms. All things became a flurry of light and colour as she slipped through.

Solid shapes materialised from the aether and Hera’s senses became stiflingly finite. This plane was alien territory, foreign. And yet familiar. A sweetness she had almost forgotten. Here she could shatter bones and snuff out lives with no more than a thought. Not something she enjoyed, naturally, and yet … She permitted herself a deep breath and felt the power course through her limbs. The rush might have brought a smile to her face.

‘Queen Hera. You should not have delayed.’ Athena held her nose in the air, a trait she had inherited from Zeus. As ever, Athena bedecked herself with the trappings of battle—a plumed helmet, a golden breastplate, a glistening spear. ‘It is agreeable to see you.’

‘And you.’ Hera knew the hall, though the chamber was filled with the gloom of neglect. The torch brackets were empty and the air was thick with mildew and old cobwebs. ‘I swore I would never return to Olympus.’

Athena shrugged. ‘My father would not think to look for you in his own hall, it has been so long since the last council.’ She motioned toward the long rectangular table and twelve chairs clothed in dust. ‘Time grows short. I have information for you.’

‘Why would you give it to me?’

Athena smiled, her lips thin. ‘Let us say my reasons are strategic.’

‘Speak on.’

Athena looked up and her grey eyes flashed. ‘War is stirring. The spirits whisper. The trees know it. The rivers and the waves rise against you. Already your enemies are moving.’

Hera scoffed. ‘You deceive me. Aphrodite would not dream it.’

Athena laughed and it gave Hera shivers. A strange sensation, not altogether pleasurable. ‘Of course she wouldn’t. My sister never lies, does she? Only three days ago she visited my uncle’s abode.’

‘Poseidon? She could have a thousand reasons to see him, she is so flighty.’

‘This was no ordinary visit. Aphrodite begged him to calm the Middle Sea, allow the Trojans safe passage.’

Hera forced herself to keep her face blank. Poseidon had betrayed her once before. He had saved that wretch Aeneas when he should have drowned. ‘His answer?’

‘The boy never gave offerings in return for his life. Poseidon has demanded a human sacrifice.’

Hera almost gagged. There was no offering so base and vile as human life.

Athena continued: ‘Somebody whose death will tear the Trojans apart and Aeneas doesn’t even know it.’ The war goddess’s knuckles tightened around the spear. ‘The sea god’s wrath is not easily quelled. I should know.’

‘Oh?’

Athena shook her head. ‘No matter now, my Odysseus is safe enough. The same cannot be said for your daughter.’

‘Elissa? What of her?’

‘You still call her that? Most know her as Dido. She cannot outrun prophecy, Hera.’

Hera’s eyes hardened. Long ago, Apollo had warned her that Aeneas would bring about Elissa’s demise. Despite all Hera’s efforts, he had survived. But she had saved Elissa from that doom. ‘The prophecy was false.’

‘Was it?’

Hera gripped the back of a chair. ‘I would know if anything happened to Elissa.’

‘And when did you last see her?’ Athena cocked her head. ‘Seven years, Hera. Seven years have passed in this world.’

The queen of heaven hoped her astonishment did not show. ‘Seven years?’

Athena’s smile widened. ‘How swiftly time passes in the realm of the One. Did you not think to look upon her?’

Power flared within Hera. She raised a glowing hand. ‘How dare you!’

Athena did not flinch. ‘See for yourself. Go to Karkhedon, if you think it will change anything. But perhaps you will regret the delay. Remember who warned you, when the time comes. Troy was just the beginning. This war will shake the world.’

Hera bent her thought upon her daughter’s city and Athena’s laughing face dissolved into nothing.

Chapter 2

The swords clacked rather than clanged, but Lavinia thought they were good enough for sparring. Sweat stained the back of her tunic and the sun burned her cheeks. The balminess of the morning was making her red hair frizzy and their proximity to the River Tiber didn’t help. Still, Lavinia was glad she and Turnus were making the most of the warm weather while it lasted.

Facing her, Turnus feinted to the right and did his best to land a touch on her shoulder. She parried the attack. Turnus always treated a duel like a dance. He was too artistic with his footwork and it made him easy to read. A fight was not a spectacle.

She poked her tongue at him. He rolled his eyes and raked aside his coal-black fringe. While he was distracted, she lunged. Her sword’s blunt point pushed against his chest.

Sorry, Turnus, she signed with her left hand. You’re dead again.

‘Right in the heart.’ He gave her a flash of his toothy grin and she couldn’t help but return it. His cheeks flushed, throwing his pimples into sharp relief. Turnus always worried about his acne, but Lavinia was sure it couldn’t be half as bad as hers. ‘All right, you win this round. Go again?’

Lavinia shook her head. Too hot. She pointed to the yellowish water of the River Tiber. Swim?

Turnus dropped his sword on the grass. ‘I didn’t bring a change of underclothes.’

She gave him a shy half-smile. Neither did I.

Turnus reddened and he bent to pick up the wooden sword. ‘Um, I—’

Lavinia rolled her eyes. Oh, for Zeus’s sake, Turnus. It’s not like we never bathed together before.

‘We were just children then. And when are you going to start calling him Jupiter?’

Fine, fine. Lavinia raised her chin and rested a hand upon her forehead as though she were in a melodrama. For you, O King of the Rutulians, I shall endure wet underclothes. And if I catch my death, my ghost shall annoy you forever.

Turnus laughed, shaking his head. ‘I’ll need a decent talisman.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Think your mother knows we’re gone? My advisers?’

Lavinia shrugged. I doubt they’re even awake yet. She hesitated as a thought occurred to her and then decided she was worrying over nothing. The moon goddess wouldn’t prick her womb for a few days. She peeled off her sandals and unpinned her tunic. It crumpled on the ground and she stepped over it. In her breast-band and loincloth she waded into the river. For an instant, she was aware of the bruises and scratches from her training sessions with the Amazons. Then she decided she didn’t care if Turnus saw. The breeze feathered her back and she sighed with contentment. She stepped further from the shore. The surface was lovely, but about a foot down it became icy. A squawk escaped Lavinia as her shoulders submerged into the water. Turnus stared and then looked away quickly, pretending he hadn’t heard. Lavinia was happier that way. It was painful to be reminded that her voice still lay buried within.

‘How is it?’ said Turnus, still fumbling with his tunic.

Her toes wriggled in the chilly mud. Fine, she lied.

Turnus propped their training swords against the oak and stepped toward the water. The young king made sure his loincloth was secure. He kept an arm crossed against his hairless chest. She couldn’t see a scar on him. He wasn’t as well muscled as she was, though they were the same height.

Lavinia snorted. You need to take your socks off, silly.

But Turnus wasn’t watching her and only realised he still had them on when he stepped into the water. He pulled them off and flung the sodden balls of wool onto the shore. Turnus squeaked when the sharp water embraced him.

She laughed aloud. For a king, Turnus, you don’t make a heroic figure.

He wrinkled his nose and slapped a handful of water in her direction. ‘Yeah? I have trouble believing you’re a princess.’

Lavinia flipped him a rude gesture, then lay back and let the current take her where it would. She lay upon the ripples, the surface of the water like a sheet of linen. The clouds above were billowy and white, craggy like the ice-capped mountains to the north.

Turnus paddled alongside her and pointed toward an inlet ringed with rocks. She kicked for it and they pulled themselves up onto flat boulders near the water’s edge, letting the sun dry them.

There was no need for conversation. It was one of the reasons she so looked forward to Turnus’s visits to her country. Unlike most people, he didn’t need to fill the silence. It was enough to listen to the cackles of the red-throated water birds, to watch them languish in pairs and dive for food. Turnus leaned forward as he watched the birds and she wondered if he would try carving one from wood. Usually he crafted model bridges and buildings, but lately he’d been more interested in animals. She closed her eyes.

An unknown voice broke the moment. ‘Ah. Mortals. I might have known.’ The Latin was mournful and deep, the accent rustic. The water birds took off in flight, wings flurrying.

Lavinia’s eyes snapped open and she turned toward the river. Standing in the middle of the river, the spirit crossed his arms, towering above her. It was as though an artist had sculpted the image of an old man using water for material. His long hair and beard swayed like weeds in a current. She supposed she was meant to be awed, but her fear of the immortals had long since perished. The spirit’s glassy lips pursed and he crossed his arms. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘You are the spirit of the Tiber,’ said Turnus.

‘I am the Tiber,’ he declared, ‘and you are sitting on my rocks.’

Turnus frowned. His bare chest puffed up and Lavinia could count his ribs. ‘Watch your tone—don’t you know I’m king of Rutulia? Princess Lavinia can sit where she likes. This is the realm of her father.’

Lavinia glared at him. She didn’t need him to speak for her. And the king of Latium was not her father, never would be. She was his ward, nothing more.

The spirit looked upon her, his brow rippling. His expression flickered between amusement and pity. ‘So young. And no idea.’ Father Tiber turned his eyes onto Turnus again and chortled. ‘Little king, I’m not at all sure I like you or your princess. You seem the sort to foul my waters.’

Lavinia’s eyes narrowed and she reached for a jagged stone. Who did this spirit think he was?

‘What, you think we’re going to pee in the river?’ said Turnus, his brow creasing. ‘I’m not going to pee in the river. Are you going to pee in the river, Lavinia?’

She shook her head, her fingers clenching around the stone.

‘Mortals are such unpleasant creatures. You sip my waters every day, taint it with your drool. Most undignified.’

‘Wait,’ said Turnus, laughing. ‘You can’t accuse us of peeing in the water and drinking it. That’s foul. Why don’t you go somewhere else if it’s so bad?’

The spirit hissed and the water around Lavinia’s toes chilled. She raised the stone, shoulders tense. ‘Mine is not to wander, mortal,’ said Father Tiber. ‘Mine is to endure. I dwelled here before your kind crawled from the mud.’

Turnus held his hands out. ‘We seek no trouble. We were just going for a swim.’

‘Swimming,’ Father Tiber rasped. He swelled as though in flood, his anger breaking like a wave. ‘Swimming! You think I want your sweat and toenails in—’ Lavinia let her stone fly. The rock passed through the spirit’s head and out the other side with a splash.

The spirit turned his head toward her, unharmed. He rubbed his foaming hands together. His shrewd eyes fell upon Lavinia once more. ‘A pity. There shall be a reckoning.’ The lord of the river retreated into the waters and vanished, leaving only droplets of sunlight in his wake.

Lavinia smirked.

Turnus crossed his arms. ‘I had that in hand.’

I saw, signed Lavinia. She stretched and yawned.

Turnus fumed for a moment, then sat down again. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. ‘So, ah … I’ve been working on something. I would have told you earlier, but I wanted to surprise you.’

Another carving?

‘Eh? No.’ He let out a breath. ‘It’s big. I don’t even know what I’m going to do for materials.’

She frowned. What?

‘An aqueduct. I’m going to build an aqueduct. It’ll bring new supplies of fresh water straight to your city.’ Turnus’s face shone with eagerness.

Lavinia stared. Why do that for King Latinus?

Turnus’s grin became furtive. ‘Well, I want to do my father-in-law a favour.’

Lavinia leaped to her feet and shot him a questioning look. You asked him?

He nodded and stood. With a shaking hand he reached for hers. ‘I know I’m not the best there is, Lavinia. But I can be a good husband.’

Lavinia’s eyes lowered and her lip trembled. She wrenched her hand free. You don’t want me, Turnus. I’m not of Italian blood. You know that. She slowed down her signing, seeing he was having trouble keeping up. I was adopted, remember? My birth father was a Greek war chief, my mother a Trojan captive. Lavinia blinked back a tear. You shouldn’t marry the princess of the flaming hair. She shook her head. I won’t be the downfall of your family line.

‘I don’t care where you came from.’

I do.

‘Lavinia?’

She could not answer.

Gently he lifted her chin so she was facing him. He signed: Pyrrha, daughter of Pyrrhos.

She bit her lip, startled. That name had lain dormant for a long time.

Do I make you happy? he asked, making the signs with deliberate care.

She nodded, biting her lip.

‘You make me happy too. Ever since the Middle Sea brought you here.’ An eyelash glistened beneath his right eye. ‘I want to keep making you happy, that’s all.’ He lowered his gaze. ‘Forgive me. I should have talked to you first. I’ll speak to King Latinus tomorrow and we can organise something else.’

Lavinia wiped her sweating palms on her thighs and blinked rapidly. No need.

Turnus looked up.

Her lip twitched upward and she reached to brush the eyelash away. Promise me one thing?

‘Name it.’

Actually, two things. I keep practising weapons.

‘Of course.’

Next … She flexed her hands. What was she trying to say?

He leaned forward. ‘What?’

The sun flickered for an instant and she looked up, shielding her eyes. An eagle wheeled above, its wings flared. Lavinia paused. Was it a sign? She lowered her face and saw Turnus still awaited her answer. I handle the river spirits.

He beamed. ‘Naturally.’ He pulled closer, his brown eyes warm. ‘So … Is that a yes?’

Lavinia nodded.

‘Yes?’

Yes!

Turnus held out his arms, joy lighting up his face.

She took a step toward him and caught the scent of cedar wood on his skin. The fuzzy stuff on his upper lip tickled her nose. Her betrothed would have to start shaving every day soon.

Her betrothed.

The thought made her smile as she tilted her head and closed her eyes.

Chapter

Reviews for The Ivory Gate

[Chelsea Fritog · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great book! Easy to read and captivating!I definitely enjoyed this whole series