Chapter 42 The Camp #2
While they spoke, Danae felt Calchas’ unflinching gaze on her like insects crawling under her skin.
You will be the reckoning, said the voice. He and all his kind will burn.
The violence of it filled her with mettle. She would show this man what true power looked like. She raised her eyes and met his stare, life-threads singing through her limbs.
Hylas’ fingers brushed her arm. Suddenly, she realized what she was doing and looked away, her life-threads retreating deep inside her. She must not listen to the voice.
‘I meant what I said, Agamemnon,’ said Nestor. ‘I will not send my men into battle until all other options have been exhausted.’
‘For the love of the gods, we were at war the moment that bastard stole my wife and gold!’ Menelaus brought his fists down onto the table, rattling the candles. Hot wax splashed over the map of Troy.
‘Brother.’ Agamemnon placed a quelling hand on his arm. His voice grew low and dangerous as he addressed Nestor. ‘You pledged your army to me.’
Calchas lingered at his master’s side. ‘Zeus himself sent a rainbow this very morn as a portent of war. Our campaign is blessed by the gods.’
Nestor faced the King of Men with an iron gaze of his own.
‘I did pledge you my army. And I may be your general, but I am first and foremost the King of Pylos. I have a solemn duty to my people. I will not spill their blood without just cause.’ Across the table, Menelaus’ eyes blazed.
‘Priam is known to be a man of reason. Allow me to ride to Troy as a peace envoy. If my attempts fail, I will order my men to follow your command. If you cannot grant me this simple ask, I and my ten thousand men will have no choice but to sail for Pylos on the dawn tide.’
Agamemnon ran a hand through his hair. His beady gaze fell on the inked outline of Troy. He let out a long hiss of breath.
‘Very well –’
‘Brother –’ interjected Menelaus.
‘I have made my decision,’ Agamemnon snapped. He turned to Nestor. ‘You have two days. If Priam does not agree to return Helen, my brother’s gold and additional reparations for the cost of launching this campaign, we will burn Troy to the ground.’
Nestor bowed his head. ‘You have my thanks, King of Men.’
Danae’s chest tightened. She caught Odysseus’ eye, and to her surprise he winked, then announced to the room, ‘I volunteer to accompany Nestor.’
She stared at him, biting the inside of her lip. What in Tartarus was he playing at? Peace was exactly what they wanted to avoid.
‘Eager to leave us again so soon?’ asked Palamedes, taking a deep draught from his cup.
Odysseus gave the hint of a smile. ‘Given that I persuaded Achilles to return when he forswore setting foot on Trojan soil, I would think my negotiating power an asset.’
Nestor nodded. ‘Odysseus’ silver tongue would indeed be a boon.’
‘I doubt even a wordsmith as adept as Odysseus will convince Priam to agree to our demands, but as you wish.’ Agamemnon considered the King of Ithaca.
‘Nestor, Odysseus and my cousin, Palamedes, will form the peace envoy. You have tonight to brief your second-in-commands should anything befall you behind those walls.’
The chosen envoy nodded.
Agamemnon waved a hand. ‘You are all dismissed.’
Danae’s heart hammered against her ribs as she followed Odysseus outside. The two guards, Sinon and Evenor, had been waiting for them and took up their usual haunt in Danae’s shadow. They were all forced into a jog as the King of Ithaca hurried through the winding tracks between the tents.
‘What have you done?’ she hissed.
Odysseus barely glanced back at her. ‘You will have to come with me, I cannot risk leaving you here. We will bring Hylas too –’
‘Odysseus!’ She grabbed his arm, and finally he spun around to face her. ‘Why did you volunteer for the peace talks?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I would have thought that obvious. To ensure they fail.’
‘Wait here.’ Odysseus gestured Danae into his tent, leaving Sinon and Evenor once more standing guard at the entrance.
Danae chewed her lip, looking around the inside of the makeshift dwelling. It was sparse compared to the grandeur of Agamemnon’s war tent, housing only a pallet, a chest, a couple of stools and a table fashioned from two barrels and three short planks hammered together.
She padded over to the chest and heaved open the lid.
It was filled with clothing, mainly tunics.
Her brow furrowed as she delved in and pulled out a faded green dress.
It smelt faintly of pine trees and a spice she did not recognize.
As the length of the fabric unfurled, something fell from its folds. She stooped to retrieve it.
A horse carved from wood. A child’s toy. Given the stains and smooth grain of its ears, it appeared to have been well loved.
A well opened inside her, the memory of Arius’ first birthday and the figurine of Heracles that Santos had carved for him, dragging her into its depths.
Then a bout of raucous laughter pricked her ears, drawing her back from the darkness.
Hastily folding the dress and figurine back into the chest, she stepped towards the entrance of the tent, remembered the guards and paused, then crept to the rear and pulled the fabric away from the earth before slipping outside.
The tang of whetted bronze sharpened the air. There was a nervous pulse to the camp, the soldiers moving in clusters about the tents, grim-faced, limbs streaked with grime, waiting for the order that might end their lives before the next sunrise.
Danae navigated through the Ithacan dwellings, following the clamour she’d heard.
She emerged into a small clearing where several pigs and goats were tethered in a makeshift pen.
Benches had been dragged through the mud, upon which sat several rowdy soldiers.
More crowded round the edges of the tents, passing skins of wine between them.
At the centre, straddling two benches, was Telamon, belting out an old kapeleion tune with a large amphora clutched in his hands.
On a moonlit night when the waves are clear,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
Lost on the water, searching for land,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
Every time Telamon called out the chorus line, the men raised their voices and swigged from their skins.
Trade him a fish, trade him a lover,
He’ll tell you the truth for a belly of plunder,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
He’ll appear as a seal, lion or tree,
Wrestle him still and he’ll spill for thee,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
‘Drink to the Old Man of the Sea.’ A familiar voice, rough and rich, whispered in her ear.
Danae glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Atalanta proffered her a wineskin. She took it, her throat burning with the strength of the unmixed grapes. She coughed, but managed to splutter, ‘Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!’ in time with the crowd.
Atalanta patted her on the back. ‘So, you survived the war tent.’
Danae leant close, murmuring, ‘Odysseus and I are to enter Troy as a peace envoy with a couple of the other generals. We must ensure the talks fail.’
Atalanta’s brow darkened. ‘Surely Odysseus can go alone. You should stay here.’
But if the slippery cove strikes a deal
Be sure to keep an even keel
Or he’ll drag you down down down
Until you drown drown drown
While the men chanted, Telamon tipped the amphora to his lips, clasping both handles, wine spilling down his chin to cries of, ‘Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!’
‘Odysseus wants me by his side,’ whispered Danae. ‘And I am more powerful than any man here, or any Trojan soldier. I can look after myself.’
Atalanta stared at her, eyes hard as marble. ‘If you die in Troy, I will climb those walls, dig up your body and kill you all over again for being so damned stupid.’
Danae cracked a smile. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’
There was a crash, then a cry from the benches.
Danae’s head snapped round. Telamon had dropped the amphora, shards shattered about his feet.
His wine-stained jaw hung slack. Danae followed his gaze to a young man who had appeared at the edge of the crowd.
He was tall and broad, his freckled cheeks stained pink from the chill sea breeze, his periwinkle eyes bright beneath a crop of flame-red hair.
‘Ajax?’ Telamon breathed.
The young man glanced about, bemused. ‘Who wants to know?’
Telamon’s mouth moved soundlessly before he managed to say, ‘It’s me …’
Ajax stiffened, realization dawning.
‘What’s this? A lovers’ reunion?’ called one of the soldiers.
Ajax’s face ripened to the colour of the Ithacan flag, then he spun around and stormed away through the tents.
Telamon stood stupefied for a heartbeat, then he leapt from the benches and ran after Ajax.
‘Is that his son –’ Danae began, but Atalanta put a finger to her lips and tugged Danae after the two men.
They stalked the pair through the fabric dwellings, picking their way between taut ropes and groups of roaming soldiers until Atalanta pulled Danae behind a stack of barrels.
‘Please …’ Telamon called after the younger man, ‘Ajax, wait!’
Ajax spun around, his muscular arms folded across his chest.
‘You’ve … grown since last I saw you.’ Telamon offered a smile. Ajax did not return it.
The silence screeched like a blade over stone.
‘How is your mother?’ Telamon offered.
Ajax’s eyes darkened. ‘You don’t get to ask that.’
Telamon looked down at his feet.
‘Why are you here?’
Telamon lifted his gaze. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’ve come to fight … I didn’t know you’d be here.’
Moisture blossomed in Ajax’s eyes. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
Telamon braved half a step towards him. ‘Please … son.’
Ajax flinched. ‘Stay away from me, or I swear on the Styx you’ll regret it.’ He turned and stormed away, leaving his father staring after him, shoulders rounded.
Danae took a step towards Telamon, but Atalanta grabbed her arm, shaking her head.
Telamon dragged a hand across his mouth, then disappeared between the tents.
‘He will need time,’ said Atalanta. ‘And a good drink.’
Danae looked back at the warrior, and it occurred to her that for the first time since leaving Delos, they were alone. Atalanta’s hand still rested on her arm, her skin warm beneath the warrior’s fingers.
Atalanta glanced down at her hand, then at Danae. She did not remove it.
Danae’s lips parted, the air thickening with each breath. She knew she should speak, should move, but she could do neither.
‘I did not lie with her.’
The moment shattered. Danae flinched from Atalanta’s touch.
The warrior swiftly brought her hand to her side, fist clenched. ‘The princess on Skyros … I didn’t –’
‘I don’t care what you do.’ Danae drew her cloak tightly around her torso.
Pain flickered across Atalanta’s face.
Twin barbs of sorrow and satisfaction prised their way between Danae’s ribs.
‘I should find Odysseus.’ She spun on her heel and stalked away, before she could utter another word she knew she would regret.