Chapter 43 The Fortress City
The following dawn, under an iron sky, Danae, Nestor, Palamedes, Odysseus and Hylas guided their horses over the ford bridging the river Scamander, then rode onwards across the Trojan Plain.
Danae could not fathom how Odysseus had convinced Agamemnon to allow Hylas to ride out with these generals. Another testament to his silver tongue.
Her jet-black cloak billowed behind her, whipping the flanks of her dappled mare.
It felt strange to ride without having to tuck her legs back to accommodate wings.
The loss of Pegasus, the horse she had once called Hylas, burrowed like a worm in her gut.
She reminded herself that he was just an animal, yet somehow his abandoning her cut far deeper than Heracles leaving.
Her throat tightened as she banished thoughts of the hero flying away from Delos on the back of her once loyal companion.
The winged horse’s old namesake cantered ahead. She wondered if the fates had laughed as they took away one Hylas, only to deliver her another.
Sometimes she doubted that she had any choice at all; that no matter what she did, destiny would always correct her path, like a sailor tweaking a sail in a changing wind.
A dark thread forever pulling her taut. No matter where she travelled, it would always drag her towards Olympus, sweeping everyone she cared for into its web.
Perhaps this war with Troy was inevitable.
It eased the heaviness in her soul to think that the lives of all those who would die might not rest solely on her shoulders.
The city of Troy seemed to expand as they charged towards it, stone towers stretching to pierce the clouds.
They slowed as they neared the walls. Specks of bronze glinted at them from high above, archers poised to rain down their arrows in a heartbeat. Danae’s pulse quickened. She did not know if she had the power to protect them if all the soldiers let fly at once.
Nestor held up a hand, and they drew up the horses.
The archers were not their only greeting. Dangling on long ropes, suspended from the tops of the walls, were bodies.
‘Shit,’ muttered Palamedes.
‘Who are they?’ asked Danae.
Agamemnon’s cousin glanced at her. ‘The scouting party Diomedes sent out.’
Nestor sighed. ‘This does not bode well.’
Odysseus’ brow was studiously creased, eyes etched with practised concern. Only the barest twitch of his mouth betrayed him.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Hylas, eyeing the archers.
‘We wait,’ said Nestor.
Danae wrenched her gaze from the hanging bodies, and her eyes fell on an old oak tree, standing alone before the Scaean Gates, the main entrance to Troy.
Its lower branches were hung with a myriad of figurines, jewellery and pieces of fine cloth.
Painted vases leant against its thick, mottled trunk, and scrolls of parchment were tucked into the crevices of its bark.
‘The oak is sacred to the Trojans,’ said Odysseus, smoothing his horse’s mane as it tossed its head.
‘They believe it is connected to the fates. A twin of those holy trees that grow in the sacred grove at Dodona. They adorn it with gifts, like a shrine, hoping destiny will look kindly on them.’ He winked at Danae so subtly, she almost wondered if she’d imagined it.
There was a thunderous crack, then the vast doors of the Scaean Gates rumbled open. Between the gap streamed a line of soldiers; swords sheathed at their sides, spears in one hand, shields in the other.
Danae grasped her horse’s reins, while imagining herself sinking into the river of calm, and summoned her life-threads.
Odysseus drew his steed up beside her mare, hissing, ‘Do not reveal yourself.’
Danae’s jaw tightened, but she let her threads disperse within herself.
The soldiers halted, and a man whose crimson-plumed helm marked him as their captain came to stand before his infantry, eyes narrowed beneath his helmet.
‘State your intent, Greeks.’
‘We are a peace envoy. We seek an audience with King Priam.’
The captain met his words with a stony gaze.
‘I evoke xenia,’ Nestor pressed, ‘Zeus’ sacred rule of hospitality. We come as strangers seeking shelter and therefore must be permitted to enter Troy unharmed.’
There was a pause before the captain replied, ‘I shall relay your message to our king.’
The soldiers retreated between the doors, and the Scaean Gates closed once more.
Time trickled by at an excruciating pace.
Danae had no way of knowing how long they waited, for the sun’s progress was cloaked by a persistent armour of cloud.
She glanced up at the archers, their arrows still prone, and drew her cloak tight around her.
If the Trojan guard atop the walls were tiring, they did not show it.
There was no denying winter’s touch in the creeping darkness and the chill wind that bit to the bone.
She caught herself thinking of the old lie, that Persephone must have returned to the Underworld and the earth now withered with Demeter’s grief.
She barely dared admit to herself that sometimes she longed to return to blissful unknowing.
To put down the weight of truth and once more breathe the sweet ignorance of lies.
‘If they grant us an audience, let Nestor do the talking,’ Palamedes said pointedly to Odysseus.
‘I will do whatever needs to be done,’ countered the king.
Palamedes huffed out a breath. ‘I know you, Odysseus. You are loyal to none but yourself.’
‘I have pledged my army to Agamemnon just as you have.’
‘Enough!’ Nestor cut between the two generals. ‘It is men’s lives we hold in our hands. You would do well to remember that.’
Before either general could reply, there was a groan, and the great doors of the Scaean Gates opened once more. The captain and his men filed out.
‘By the order of King Priam, I am to escort you to the palace. Dismount and remove your weapons.’
They did as they were bid, four soldiers relieving them of their horses and arms, while the others formed a barrier around them and turned to march the peace envoy into the city.
A crowd had gathered on the other side. As they entered the streets of Troy, Danae could see very little beyond the armoured bodies of the guards, but she could feel the hatred pulsing from the Trojans.
She half expected their party to be attacked as the soldiers barrelled them through the streets, yet the people of Troy remained at a distance, their loathing radiating as though baked into the very stones.
The biting chill of the sea’s breath was kept out by the high walls, its keen replaced by the rumble of the city.
The air smelled of spice, stone, livestock and the occasional waft of roasted nuts.
As the guards marched the envoy through the streets, between their heads Danae caught glimpses of merchants selling crates of fresh fruits, vegetables and barrels of fish, people bustling past with large vases of grain and smaller amphorae of oil and wine.
Diomedes had been right; they must have a hidden supply route into the city.
Like Athens, the Trojan citadel was raised atop a hill in the northern sector.
The wealth of Troy was evident from its buildings.
Rather than wood, many were constructed from the same yellow stone as the fortress walls, but it was the palace that truly displayed the city’s riches.
Danae peered above the guards’ heads at the twelve gold statues sitting atop the balustrades, fashioned in the likeness of the gods.
The great building itself was lavishly painted, the intricately carved columns and roof friezes bright against the darkening sky.
Two large fig trees grew from beneath the stones next to the entrance, their ripe fruit hanging like bruised raindrops aching to fall.
After climbing the acropolis’s summit, the Greek envoy entered the palace through a pair of vast oak doors detailed with bronze.
The guards finally peeled away, and they were greeted by the smoky perfume of incense, wafting from hanging braziers cut with patterns, their flames scattering diamonds of light across the tiled floor.
Gilt chairs plumped with cushions rested against the walls, and more painted pillars lined the expansive corridor, guarding frescos of dancing nymphs in lush grottos with birds flying about their heads and lions prowling by their sides.
‘I can see why Helen left Mycenae,’ whispered Hylas.
There was a hiss and the clinking of metal. Then they were ushered at sword point down an expansive passage and shown into a large megaron, packed with richly dressed courtiers, many draped in jewel-coloured robes.
The cacophony of voices stilled as they entered, and silence crashed over the room.
Danae looked at Hylas and caught a flicker of her own trepidation reflected in her friend’s eyes.
‘The Greek peace envoy,’ announced the captain of their guard.
Low muttering and murderous glances echoed through the room as the gathered Trojans parted, clearing a path to reveal a large hearth, framed by four saffron pillars. The royal family of Troy sat on a raised dais behind the fire pit, enthroned in high-backed chairs of bronze.
Danae squinted through the heady smoke, matching their faces to the descriptions Odysseus had given her.
King Priam presided from the central throne.
He was elderly, his thinning white hair crested by a golden crown studded with sapphires.
His cheeks were drawn and sallow, his hazel eyes yellowed with age.
To his right sat Queen Hecuba, who appeared to be at least a decade his junior, her rich brown skin creased with worry, a matching gold band nestled upon her braided, silver-streaked hair.