Chapter 37 The Many-Faced Man
‘Row faster!’ Atalanta crouched at the prow of the little sailing vessel, elbows resting on her scarred knees, the ruby glow of dusk pooling in the rivets of her silver breastplate.
‘Still your tongue, woman,’ Telamon grumbled as he heaved the oars. He glanced over his shoulder at Danae, ‘Can’t you do something with those Titan powers of yours? Conjure us a breath of wind?’
Danae shook her head. ‘I need to conserve my strength.’
The island of Myconos had looked so close from the shore of Delos, yet now it seemed to grow further away with each stroke of the oars.
Atalanta scowled. ‘This next island better have wine.’
Danae closed her eyes and took comfort in the familiar rocking of the boat.
When she cast her mind too far ahead, her chest tightened and breathing became difficult, so she focused on what would happen next.
They would land at Myconos and find shelter for the night.
Tomorrow was a problem she would face with the dawn.
‘We’ve got company.’
Danae’s eyes snapped open. She looked to where Atalanta pointed, and her heart tripped.
A sleek black penteconter with a billowing white sail was heading towards them.
Had the Olympians already sent reinforcements after Poseidon?
Telamon stilled the oars, his hand travelling to the sword lying beside him on the bench. ‘Looks like it’s heading to Delos.’
The ship was a little larger than the Argo, with space for around fifty rowers.
No figurehead presided over its prow, but the all-seeing eye of the Twelve was painted on either hull, and a row of bronze shields lined its sides.
The benches only seemed to be half full, but from their armour, the occupants appeared to be soldiers.
‘The shields,’ whispered Atalanta, ‘they’re Ithacan.’
Danae knew little of Ithaca, only that it was an island far from Naxos, located on the other side of mainland Greece in the Ionian Sea.
‘Danae …’ said Telamon in a low voice, his green eyes fixed on the penteconter.
‘I’ve got enough strength to use my powers if I must.’ She set her jaw, gathering her life-threads into her hands.
Telamon kept his sword hidden below the lip of their boat, likewise Atalanta readied her bow out of sight.
They were at a disadvantage to the larger vessel, but if it came to it, Danae was sure she could hold the men off long enough for her comrades to climb aboard and subdue the crew.
That is, if there wasn’t an Olympian on board.
Their little tub bobbed violently in the swell as the ship drew closer. The penteconter’s rowers hauled in their oars as they approached, several men clustering to the starboard side of the deck.
‘You there!’ called a plain-clothed man in a teal tunic and grey cloak, as he gestured towards Delos.
‘Have you come from that land, yonder?’ He was of medium build, and his features were ordinary, forgettable even.
He was neither tall nor short, and looked to be around his fortieth year.
His wavy hair was the hue of a walnut, his weather-creased skin richly tanned as though he spent much of his days outdoors.
He didn’t look threatening, yet Danae had survived too much strife to take anything at face value.
‘Who’s asking?’ replied Atalanta, her nonchalant tone at odds with the concealed arrow that could pierce the man’s jugular in the space of two breaths.
As she spoke another man appeared beside the first. He too wore a plain tunic, rather than armour, but Danae assumed he must also be a soldier. He leant upon a wooden crutch, his arms covered in prominent scars, his face partially obscured by long chestnut curls buffeted by the breeze.
At the sight of them, the second man stiffened.
Then he whispered into the first man’s ear.
As she watched the fervent exchange, Danae’s skin prickled like an animal sensing rain before the first drop has fallen.
The man who had called to them grew very still, focusing on Danae as though she had suddenly swallowed the sun.
Pulse thumping, she realized she barely had moments to act. If this man knew who she was, and what she could do, they had lost the crucial element of surprise.
She flung her arms out, throwing her shimmering life-threads into the sea. Taking her cue, Atalanta rose to standing, an arrow drawn at her cheek. But before either of them could attack, Telamon sprang to his feet, tipping their boat into a violent sway.
‘By the fates!’
‘What?’ Danae hissed, threads snapping back inside her as she stumbled.
Telamon ignored her, lowering his sword as he stared in slack-jawed amazement at the scarred man.
Danae’s eyes snapped to the stranger. His gaze met hers. Familiarity blossomed at the corners of her mind. They looked at each other for a breath, then her heart imploded. It felt as though she’d been punched backwards through time, falling into an endless cascade of memory.
A ghost. A friend who had fought by her side, who had tried to kiss her then saved her life before he was ripped from the deck of the Argo by an Earthborn’s vicious claws. A companion whose death she’d imagined over and over again. The man whose name she had given to her winged steed.
But she had imagined a fate that had never come to pass.
Atalanta’s bow clattered to the floor of their little boat. ‘Hylas!’
Danae could not move, heart thundering against her ribs as a swell of emotion coursed through her. She was afraid to blink, as though at any moment the mirage of her friend would disappear.
‘It seems the fates have indeed been weaving their webs,’ said the man in the teal tunic, watching the exchange with an air of controlled calm. ‘Come aboard, friends of Hylas.’
No one moved.
‘Who are these men?’ Telamon called to Hylas.
Without waiting for him to reply, the first man smiled, the dying light gleaming in his eyes. ‘I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca.’
Danae barely registered his words. She felt as though she were wading through a dream, the air thick and blurred with sleep. Atalanta’s and Telamon’s eyes flicked between her and Hylas. It took her a moment to realize that they were waiting for her instruction.
Something about this Odysseus filled her with unease. He was impossible to read, like sand washed clean of footprints. She could not tell if he was friend or foe. But Hylas was with him. That had to count for something.
Hylas was alive.
‘We go aboard,’ she said thickly.
They secured their rowing boat with rope thrown down by Odysseus’ men to one of the ladder pegs bolted to the starboard side of the ship, then climbed up.
Danae carried the bundle of Poseidon’s armour, shattered trident and the collar slung over her shoulder.
It was cumbersome, but too precious to be left unattended in the little tub.
The soldiers moved away from them, retreating to the benches as the three pulled themselves up onto the stern deck.
There was something strange about the way the soldiers looked at Danae and only her, their faces flushed not only with the last vestiges of light, but something else. Something like wonder.
A breath slipped between her lips as Odysseus and Hylas clambered up to the deck to meet them.
Her old friend was much changed. In addition to the scars on his limbs, Hylas’ left cheek bore the deep gouges of an Earthborn’s claws, and his left leg ended just below the knee, a false limb with a moving ankle joint fashioned from oiled wood attached via leather straps.
Odysseus took a couple of measured steps towards them. His features might be ordinary, but his eyes were sharp and flecked with amber, like a wolf’s.
Suddenly, she remembered that these men were not privy to the secrets she and her companions had learnt on Delos and swiftly intoned the sacred greeting, ‘May the Twelve see you and know you.’
Odysseus did not raise his hand to his forehead in response. He watched her carefully. Then his face cracked into a smile.
‘My lord,’ said Hylas, ‘these are my old companions from my days travelling with Heracles – Telamon, Atalanta and … Daeira.’ He spoke her name as though it were a gem freshly pared from the earth: precious with edges that could slice skin.
Danae stared at him, trying to fit her memory to the man stood before her. It was not just his appearance that had changed – there was a coldness to his demeanour that had not been there before.
Then Telamon cut in, striding forward and scooping Hylas into an embrace. ‘How in Tartarus are you alive?’
Hylas blinked as the flame-haired man released him, his cheeks flushing. ‘Because the fates wished it.’
‘Indeed …’ said Odysseus, his eyes raking over the strangers to his ship. ‘Nothing has been seen or heard of the hero, Heracles, since the usurped Eurystheus sent him to the Underworld. Where is your leader?’
Danae could feel Atalanta and Telamon tense beside her.
‘We don’t know,’ she said quietly.
A shadow of worry flickered across Hylas’ face.
‘A pity,’ said Odysseus, his amber eyes betraying nothing.
Danae wished a cloud would swallow the low sun, everything was so bright, the reflected light piercing her eyes from every shining blade and curve of armour.
It was then she noticed the gold pin at the gather of Odysseus’ cloak, the image of an apple tree stamped upon it. Hylas too wore a similar brooch attached to the left shoulder of his tunic.
Pulse quickening, she asked, ‘What is your business in this part of the Aegean?’
Odysseus smiled, his expression a veneer of courtly grace.
‘I was summoned to Delos. Fortunately, my ship happened to be nearby when I received the call.’ He prised his fingers beneath the collar of his tunic and pulled out a chain.
Dangling from it was Metis’ bronze medallion, engraved with the Hesperides tree.