Chapter 40 The Best of the Greeks
Recollection sparked in Danae’s mind. Telamon’s brother, Peleus, had spoken of a son, Achilles, aboard the Argo.
‘He’s your nephew?’
Telamon nodded, his brow furrowed.
‘Is that so?’ Odysseus gestured for Telamon to join them on the prow deck. ‘The fates have indeed placed you in our path. I predict Achilles will not come with us willingly. He may need some encouragement to join the Greek army.’
‘Why?’ asked Danae.
‘He had … a disagreement with King Agamemnon.’
‘Go on.’
Odysseus sighed. ‘The Greek army congregated at Aulis before sailing for Troy. Plague broke out, and Calchas, Agamemnon’s seer, told him that the gods demanded a pure sacrifice of royal blood or the entire Greek force would be decimated by disease.
Agamemnon sent for his daughter, Iphigenia, under the false claim he wished to give her in marriage to Achilles.
Instead, she was killed as an offering.’
Danae’s heart grew hard and heavy as stone.
You will destroy them all, whispered the voice. She knew she should no longer heed its advice, but still it gave her mettle.
‘Achilles did not bear the duplicity well,’ continued Odysseus. ‘He left the Greek army, taking his warriors with him.’
‘Why does it matter if he fights?’ Danae pressed. ‘Is he a member of the Children of Prometheus?’
The king shook his head. ‘It is important because he is the best mortal Greek soldier alive. We need him to make the fight for Troy worthy of luring the gods down to the battle.’ Odysseus leant upon the ship’s rail, his eyes bright.
‘They care deeply about the coming war. Several of the Twelve have already proclaimed their favourites. I believe that, at the very least, Ares, Athena and Apollo will come to the battle. But we must draw as many Olympians as we can. As I said yesterday, this is our chance to clear the way for you to take Olympus.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Danae.
His lips twitched into a small smile. ‘Trust me.’
‘Trust must be earned.’ She held his gaze. ‘Who are your sources?’
Odysseus spread his hands. ‘A few carefully chosen priestesses I’ve managed to turn to our cause.’
His face was calm as a placid sea. But like the ocean, who knew what secrets lay concealed beneath his depths.
She did not know if she believed his answer, but even if he spoke the truth, it had taken a dragon to best Hades, two Titans and two warriors to defeat Poseidon.
She may have gained a small army, but they were only men.
She would need to work on strengthening her connection to Gaiasight before facing any more of the false gods in battle.
‘The Olympians are incredibly powerful …’
Odysseus straightened up and placed a hand on her shoulder, like a father might do. ‘You are the last daughter, and have already slain two of the false gods. You can do this.’
‘What of Artemis?’ Atalanta interrupted. ‘Will she come to Troy?’ Her knuckles strained through her skin as she clutched the side of the ship.
‘My sources did not say.’
Danae drew a breath, about to press him further, when Telamon interjected, ‘I haven’t seen Achilles since he was a babe, I doubt he’ll remember me.’
Odysseus beamed, throwing an arm around his shoulders. ‘Come now, your nephew will surely be delighted to see his heroic uncle who fought alongside the famous Heracles.’
Telamon’s spine straightened.
‘How did Achilles become the best of the Greeks?’ Atalanta asked.
Danae wondered if the warrior was thinking of Heracles’ strength elixir and whether the gods had meddled in the life of this young man too.
‘Some say his mother, Thetis, is divine.’
Telamon laughed. ‘She is no such thing! A rumour started by the woman herself no doubt.’ He shook his head. ‘I told Peleus she would be trouble. A wife that ambitious and proud … a dangerous combination.’
Their conversation halted as the ship glided through turquoise shallows to a stretch of beach. The creamy sand was crowded by a small fleet of penteconters. Like their own vessel, the ships were sleek, painted black and designed for speed.
Sweat rolled down the navigator’s back, dripping onto the deck as he steered them into a space between the ships.
Once their vessel was hauled ashore, Odysseus ordered several of the men to stay with their penteconter, whilst he and the others went to secure an audience with the King of Skyros, Lycomedes.
‘It would be an offence not to formally introduce myself,’ said Odysseus as they paced across the sand. ‘We will likely need Lycomedes on our side if we are to convince Achilles to leave with us.’
As on Myconos, a pair of soldiers lingered behind Danae. She bit back the desire to tell them she didn’t need guarding.
Ahead of them, stone steps had been carved into the cliff, meandering up to a rocky peak.
Nestling beside the uppermost crag was a modest palace, constructed from a blend of wood and the same white stone as the rocks.
Music drifted down, the bright strings of harps and lyres twining with a symphony of voices and drumming feet.
‘Sounds like we’ve stumbled on a celebration,’ Odysseus called back as they climbed the steps.
Danae watched Hylas ahead of her, marvelling at the movement of his wooden limb as it gleamed in the sunlight.
Wild goats ran freely across the rocky hillside, and gulls called to each other as they careered through the sun-bleached sky. Perhaps it was the climb from the beach, but it seemed as though time itself had melted into the warm stones. Skyros reminded her a little of home.
All of them were breathing heavily, their brows stung with sweat by the time they reached the palace plateau.
As she leant on her knees to catch her breath, Danae noticed Hylas’ mouth was pressed into a hard line, his knuckles white against the dark grain of his crutch.
She sorely wished she’d had more time on Delos to learn how to heal others and could do something to ease his pain.
If she had, perhaps she’d have been able to save Metis.
Odysseus approached the great wooden doors and rapped upon them. Several moments later the left-hand panel creaked open, and a guard’s face appeared in the gap. The noise of revelry grew louder.
‘Who are you?’
‘The Twelve see you and know you. I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca. We were beset by ill winds on our journey, but I am relieved that, by the sounds of it, I have not missed the celebration.’ He flashed the man a winning smile.
The guard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are not one of the invited guests.’
Odysseus did not miss a beat. ‘Of course I am, why else would I be here?’ When the guard did not answer, Odysseus’ brow darkened.
‘I’m sure King Lycomedes would be aggrieved to hear that one of his men flouted xenia, Zeus’ sacred rule of hospitality.
Especially when he learns the offended is the King of Men’s most trusted general. ’
Danae scoured Odysseus’ face. She could not tell if this was information he had previously withheld or a honeyed lie.
The guard paled. A moment later the door was heaved open.
‘Gifts for the royal couple can be left in the southern chamber,’ said the guard, ushering them through.
‘Must be one of the king’s daughters getting married,’ whispered Telamon.
Their group stepped into a pillared entrance hall bustling with people.
Women in brightly dyed dresses wafted past, jewels glinting at their necks and wrists, goblets of wine clasped in their hands.
Many of the men were just as richly clothed, but Danae noticed there were several dressed in fortified leather armour.
Guards too were stationed at the doorways, bronze-tipped spears clutched in their fists.
All the guests wore elegant masks over the upper half of their faces.
Some were fashioned in the likeness of animals, some adorned with a rainbow of feathers, and some sported twisted horns like the mask worn by the Hades-priestess at the Thesmophoria on Naxos.
‘Please choose a mask.’ The guard gestured to a basket piled high with various face-coverings. ‘It is customary.’
Atalanta chose one woven with threads so bright they resembled flames. Odysseus chose an eagle, Telamon a boar, Hylas one painted with leaves, and Danae a mask of plain black leather.
‘This way.’ Their guard ushered them out into a large, sun-drenched courtyard.
A vast wooden pergola wound with vines dominated the space.
Streams of cloth dyed indigo, crimson and saffron billowed above the heads of a sea of revellers, dancing to the music plucked by a clutch of musicians stationed under an awning.
Beyond the pergola, at the end of the courtyard, was a dais flanked by potted olive trees.
Cushion-strewn couches sat upon it, and reclining on them was an elderly man with a lacquered grey beard surrounded by several sumptuously dressed young women.
The man nodded his head in time to the music, a contented smile about his wizened lips.
As the rest of them took in the scene, Atalanta slunk towards a table in the shadow of the pergola and swiftly filled a cup with mixed wine from a bronze dish.
‘I take it that is King Lycomedes?’ whispered Hylas, staring at the older man upon the dais.
‘It appears so,’ said Odysseus, scanning the crowd.
‘Where is Achilles?’ asked Telamon.
Odysseus’ lips tightened. ‘I cannot tell.’ As Atalanta returned to their side, wine in hand, he continued, ‘But we will find him. Those leather-clad soldiers are his elite warriors, the Myrmidons. He can’t be far. Mingle with the guests, discover what you can.’
With that, Odysseus slipped into the swirl of dancing bodies flowing in time to the music. Atalanta and Telamon followed him.
Hylas looked at Danae. ‘I’ve got a wooden leg, what’s your excuse?’
‘I dance like a bear.’
The corners of his mouth twitched, and her heart lifted. For a beat, it was as easy as it used to be between them.