Chapter 44 Honoured Guests
Antenor lived not far from the palace in an imposing, two-storey house constructed from the same polished yellow stone as Troy’s great walls.
On the lower level, sky-blue pillars flanked an oak doorway stained red with lacquer, loomed over by small, square windows cut into the bricks like sunken eyes.
Odysseus helped Antenor heave open the heavy doors, and the Greek envoy entered the spacious dwelling, while two palace guards positioned themselves outside, another pair heading to watch the street at the rear.
Inside, the entrance hall was warm and smelt faintly of smoke and spice.
The Trojan councillor closed his front door with a sigh, resting a gnarled hand upon the wood.
‘I apologize for the inhospitable welcome to my city. The threat of war has made people forget the expectations placed on us by the gods.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ said Nestor.
Antenor smiled as he propped his staff beside the door. ‘Come, warm yourself by my hearth. I have many sons, but none now live under my roof, so there are rooms for all.’ He raised his voice, ‘Theano, my dear, we have visitors!’
A white-haired woman draped in a fine green dress appeared in the stone corridor. She stopped still at the sight of the strangers in her home, her eyes roving over their faces, their clothing.
‘Who are these people?’
‘Visitors to our city.’
Theano bristled. ‘They’re the Greeks, aren’t they?’
Antenor looked surprised at her guess.
‘Trust you to bring them to our house,’ she hissed through her teeth. ‘I’ve heard talk of nothing else all afternoon but the arrival of the enemy at our gate, and now they are under my roof!’
‘They are guests of our king, we are honoured to receive them.’
Theano glared at her husband.
‘My lady,’ said Nestor. ‘We are indeed amongst those who have besieged your shore and caused your city much grief. But we have come to you in peace with the hope of convincing Priam to return Argive Helen, so that no Trojan blood may be spilt. It is our dearest wish to sail back across the wine-dark sea and trouble your land no more.’
Theano’s lips tightened. Her eyes settled on Danae, absorbing her short hair and obsidian clothing. Then she said stiffly, ‘You are welcome in my home. Above all else we honour the gods.’
Odysseus grinned. ‘As do we.’
‘I’d heard tales of Trojan hospitality, but, Antenor, you have surpassed them,’ said Palamedes, as a slave girl rubbed oil onto his feet.
They were all gathered round a roaring hearth.
The stone floor was covered in animal hides, the walls draped in pastoral tapestries, and a veritable feast was spread upon several low wooden tables clustered around their lounging chairs.
It was only when the food appeared that Danae realized how hungry she was.
Plates of cured meats, cheese, bread, apricots and figs were brought to them by more slaves, each dish more tantalizing than the last. They had eaten for the most part in silence, barely pausing to wash the food down with gulps of watered wine.
They had seen no more of Theano, who, despite extending the comforts of her home, still seemed uneasy in their company and had withdrawn to her chamber.
‘What think you, Antenor? Will Priam agree to our demands?’ asked Nestor.
The old Trojan councillor gazed into the fire. ‘Many in this city wish for Helen to return to Menelaus and be done with the whole sorry affair.’
‘Surely Priam will bow to the demands of his people rather than risk war,’ said Odysseus, as a slave refilled his cup. ‘Many thousands will die, whoever the victor.’
Danae’s wine suddenly tasted bitter on her tongue. She wondered how he could speak so easily of the deaths their sabotage would ensure.
‘Were it that simple,’ replied Antenor. ‘You see, when it comes to Paris, Priam is rather indulgent.’
‘Go on,’ Odysseus prompted.
Antenor ran a hand across his mouth. ‘When Queen Hecuba was great with child, she and Priam received a prophecy from Delphi. It foretold their unborn son would be the destruction of Troy. They were most distraught and knew that a terrible choice lay before them. Their child or their city. One life or thousands. They did what any wise rulers would do. When Paris was born the child was given in secret to a herdsman to be taken to Mount Ida and exposed on the hillside. The king and queen claimed the boy had not survived the birth and lived for years under the burden of the truth. When eighteen summers had passed, a young farmer arrived at the Scaean Gates who was the very image of his mother, Hecuba. It was revealed that the herdsman could not bring himself to leave the child to die all those years ago and so had raised Paris as his own. Priam believes the gods rewarded them by returning their son, and their eighteen years of sacrifice were enough to placate the fates. Unfortunately, Paris has proven himself to be vain, lustful and jealous, traits only exacerbated by the indulgence of his parents, who I believe have never shaken the guilt they bear for attempting to have him killed.’
‘You speak very frankly of your royal family,’ said Palamedes.
‘Be not mistaken, I am, and always will be, loyal to Troy. I seek only to arm you with the knowledge to prevent this war.’
‘And we are indebted to you.’ Nestor reached across and clasped Antenor’s hand.
Odysseus said nothing as he gazed at the flaming hearth. Danae wondered what schemes were percolating behind that furrowed brow.
‘Come,’ said Antenor. ‘The hour is late. Let me show you to your chambers, I am sure you will all wish to rest before your audience with the king tomorrow.’
Barefoot, she walked upon the midnight sand.
The ghostly grove outside Hades’ palace lay before her, and beyond raced the dark waters of the River Styx.
As she drew closer, the trees began to move, yet no breeze danced across her limbs.
Their trunks were thicker than she remembered, their bark like silvery skin, branches reaching towards each other like outstretched arms.
She realized with a horrifying jolt that they were not trees at all, but people; their feet buried in the earth, wailing soundlessly at a sky they could not see.
She ran across the last stretch of ground, obsidian grains spraying behind her pounding feet. But when she reached the grove, the tree-like figures twisted away from her, hiding their faces.
‘Don’t be afraid, I’m going to help you!’ she called, in a voice that was not her own.
A voice that whispered to her in the small, dark hours.
Heart racing, she raised her hands and saw pale, slender fingers.
It could not be.
Drain them, said the voice inside her head. A voice so like the one that had awoken with her power, yet different. Older, colder, hungrier.
Though a part of her screamed ‘No!’ another part growled with desire, and she found herself reaching towards the nearest person. Horror and excitement pounding in her chest, she wrapped her hands around their neck and began to drain their life-threads.
It felt wonderful.
Danae woke tangled in her cloak, her skin slick with sweat. She looked down at her hands in the stuttering candlelight and sagged with relief. They were her own familiar fingers.
She thought at first it was the dream that had roused her, then something clattered against the painted shutters of her bedroom window. Frowning, she paced across the room and flung them open.
‘Psst!’
Danae gazed down both ends of the street. The Trojan guards were nowhere to be seen.
‘Psst!’
She snapped her head around to see a cloaked figure emerge from behind a horse trough. The figure beckoned.
Danae hesitated for a heartbeat, then climbed through the window, landing softly on the ground below before slipping into the shadows, eyes darting about for the guards. The cloaked stranger hurriedly gestured her further down the street, then vanished into a narrow alleyway.
This might well be a trap, but mortal cunning was no match for a Titan.
Danae ran after them, then slowed, drawing her power into her fingertips as she stepped into the shadowy alley.
The figure was waiting for her.
Danae’s limbs tensed as she readied herself for an attack, but the stranger simply drew back their hood and stepped into a sliver of moonlight.
It was the priestess of Apollo Danae had seen in the palace megaron.
‘Forgive me, sister of the all-seeing eye.’ The priestess’s eyes gleamed in the cold light. ‘We do not have long until the guards return, and I must speak with you.’
Without her red veil and priestess robes she appeared younger than Danae had first thought. Her tumble of raven curls hung loose about her face, her light-brown skin flushed with the chill of the night.
Danae drew herself up, adopting an air of authority. ‘You distracted them?’
The priestess nodded, her shoulders twitching with nervous energy. ‘I paid a pair of prostitutes to lure them away.’ She spoke as though this was the most scandalous thing she’d ever done.
Danae blinked. ‘What do you want with me, priestess?’
The woman swallowed. ‘My name is Cassandra, I am the daughter of King Priam.’ She drew a breath, then blurted, ‘Helen wishes to return to Menelaus.’
Danae’s heart sank through her chest. ‘How do you know this?’
‘She told me. She cannot bear the thought of so much bloodshed in her name. But my brother, Paris, will never let her go. So tonight, Helen slipped a sleeping draught in his wine. He will not wake in time for the peace talks tomorrow.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
Cassandra stepped forward, her eyes wide and shining as the moon.
‘You must remind my parents what the oracle at Delphi prophesied all those years ago. Paris will be the ruin of this city. Please, make them remember. They do not listen to me.’ Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘From one sister to another.’
Danae backed away.
‘Please,’ Cassandra begged, ‘so many will die if you do not help me.’
‘Who goes there!’
Danae spun on her heel. One of the palace guards stood in the street, peering into the alley. He drew his sword.
‘Run,’ Danae hissed at Cassandra. ‘Go!’
Cassandra cast one last pleading look at Danae then threw up her hood and hurried away, to be swallowed by shadow.
Danae turned back to face the guard.
‘It is I, the seer, Dione.’
‘Come out here where I can see you.’
She did as she was bid, and stepped out into the street.
‘Why would a foreign seer be skulking about in the dead of night?’ The guard raised his weapon. ‘Unless she’s a spy.’
Danae’s heart hammered against her ribs as she summoned her life-threads. She did not wish to hurt him, but what choice did she have?
But rather than lunging towards her, the guard stumbled. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, then he fell heavily onto the ground.
Odysseus stood behind him, breathless, clutching a blood-slicked dagger.