Chapter 43 The Fortress City #2
On either side of the king and queen sat two younger men, their thick, dark hair worn long to the napes of the necks.
The man on the left Danae assumed to be Prince Hector, leader of the Trojan army, from the scars on his muscle-bound limbs.
Beside him was his wife, Andromache, a handsome woman with sharp, intelligent eyes.
Prince Paris sat to the right of his parents, dressed in a fine tunic spun from emerald thread with a delicate golden trim, his entire body tensed with unfettered loathing.
Danae’s gaze slid swiftly over the twist of his handsome features, to settle on the woman next to him.
This, undoubtedly, was Helen.
It was rumoured that, like Heracles, she was the daughter of Zeus and a mortal woman, Leda, the former Queen of Sparta. If it were true, Danae could see nothing of her father in her features.
Objectively, Helen was perfect. Her face looked as though it had been carved from the purest white marble by a sculptor of divine skill.
Her lips were full and flushed, her eyes large and honey-brown, framed by thick black lashes.
Her hair was like liquid gold, threaded through with jewels that were dull in comparison to her beauty.
Yet there lived in the princess a coldness that sapped her radiance.
She seemed to Danae like an ornate shell.
A once bright star extinguished, left with the bitter taint of what it cost to live in a world of men and look the way she did.
Danae found herself thinking of Atalanta. She traced the warrior’s features in her mind, the tilt of her mouth, the ridges permanently etched between her brows, the scars that marked her battle-hardened limbs. She knew which woman she would prefer to gaze upon.
As the Greek envoy approached the dais, Paris placed a ring-encrusted hand over Helen’s. She twitched away, threaded her fingers together and pressed them into her lap.
The tendons in Danae’s neck tightened. Standing at the foot of the dais was a woman dressed in the crimson robes and matching veil of a priestess of Apollo.
The memory of Danae’s imprisonment at the hands of the priestesses in Delphi prickled her skin.
Beneath the translucent veil, the woman’s expression grew quizzical, and Danae realized that she was glaring.
She drew a breath and tamed her face into a mask of calm.
‘Bow,’ whispered Odysseus as they reached the hearth.
All five of them lowered themselves to their knees, the guards fanning out behind them.
In the silence, a trickle of sweat fled down Danae’s neck, her head pulsing with the hearth-smoke.
The nobility of Troy may be draped in finery, but beneath their jewels their eyes blazed with intemperate bloodlust.
‘Three Greek generals walk willingly into my palace.’ King Priam’s voice was reedy, yet it cracked through the room like a whip. ‘It would be a blow indeed to Agamemnon’s army if I were to have you all executed.’ He glanced at the guards, and they moved forward.
Danae’s breath quickened. She shifted her weight ever so slightly. Then Hylas’ fingers brushed against hers. A warning.
Nestor intoned the sacred greeting, then leant on Odysseus’ arm as he heaved himself to his feet. ‘I, Nestor, King of Pylos, Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and Palamedes, Prince of Euboea, come before you in peace with the hope to avoid war between our two peoples.’
Priam raised a hand, and his guards halted.
‘You have already sent spies to infiltrate our city,’ said Hector. ‘How do we know this is not another attempt to glean information about our defences?’
‘We swear on the waters of the Styx,’ continued Nestor. ‘All we seek is to return what was taken from the King of Sparta. The proof of our word will be in our ships leaving your shore never to return once this request is fulfilled.’
‘Helen and I are married,’ Paris growled. ‘She is Trojan now, by law and in the eyes of the gods. Menelaus can find himself another wife.’
Before Nestor could reply, Odysseus stepped towards the hearth. ‘King Priam, I would ask you to imagine that your own dear wife, or yours, Prince Hector, were snatched without your knowledge by a man you treated as an honoured guest –’
‘He spouts lies straight from Menelaus!’ Paris launched to his feet, then turned to his father. ‘You know how Helen was treated in that brutal place. The Greeks want nothing but to tear down our great city and pillage the spoils of our wealth for themselves.’
Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd. Queen Hecuba and Princess Andromache shared a glance, their mouths drawn tight.
While Paris spoke, Danae noticed Odysseus retreat behind the other Greek generals. She was reminded of Metis laying her lizard traps on Delos.
‘My cousin, Agamemnon, is a reasonable –’ Palamedes began.
But Paris would not let him finish. ‘Agamemnon is a butcher, and Menelaus brutalizes women for sport. All Greeks are barbarians. We should burn them on Ares’ altar and pour their blood in libation to the God of War!’
Inflamed by his words, several courtiers lunged at the Greeks, throwing themselves into the row of guards. Danae spun around as a man darted between the soldiers and barrelled towards her. Before she could act, Hylas was in front of her, pushing the Trojan back with his crutch.
‘We claimed xenia!’ cried Nestor. ‘You cannot defy the laws of Zeus!’
‘Enough!’ At the sound of their king’s voice, the Trojans grew still.
King Priam rose to his feet, glaring at the Greeks.
‘I will speak with my councillors, and we will reconvene at dawn.’
Once more the gathered courtiers raised their voices, forcing the old man to shout over them, ‘Do you defy your king?’
At that the room quietened. Danae shared a look with Odysseus.
Then an elderly man, leaning heavily on a staff of twisted oak, emerged from the cluster of courtiers. He bowed his grey head to the dais.
‘I, Antenor, offer my home tonight to the Greeks.’ He glared at his fellow Trojans. ‘I, for one, still honour the laws of hospitality.’
‘So be it, until tomorrow,’ said King Priam. ‘Now get them out of my sight.’