Chapter 47 Light of Mankind #2
They carried on walking past a row of tethered horses tossing their manes and flicking their tails. Beside the mounts, a group of soldiers were washing and oiling their limbs ready for battle, while another cluster polished the bronze of their shields until they gleamed.
Danae and Hylas finally emerged onto a small clearing, scattered with makeshift pens for goats and chickens, surrounding a roughly assembled hut.
Walls had been erected with planks of wood and sail tarp, and only half the roof was sheltered, the remainder open to the sky, belching plumes of black smoke into the air.
Hylas rapped on the doorframe.
There was a clang, followed by a stream of cursing from within.
‘I told you, the spears will be ready by sundown. I’m only one man!’
Then the makeshift door was flung open.
The man before them was covered in soot, a thick leather apron tied around his stocky frame.
His hands were buried in hide gloves up to his elbows, the rest of his copper arms covered in old burns.
He wore a strange contraption on his head: a band that circled his cranium, upon which a row of small bronze levers stood out above his brow, each holding a tiny circle of what looked like glass.
Danae gaped. She had never seen such a thing.
The rivets across the man’s forehead deepened as he eyed the visitors at his door. ‘Oh, Hylas, it’s you and …?’
‘Daedalus,’ Hylas inclined his head, ‘this is the last daughter.’
Daedalus’ thick eyebrows crept up his forehead. ‘You’re smaller than I imagined.’
Danae opened her mouth, but before she could reply, the man gestured them into his hut.
‘Daedalus is one of us, Children of Prometheus,’ Hylas said quietly.
The inventor frowned as Hylas limped through the doorway. ‘Leg giving you trouble?’
Hylas grimaced. ‘Yes.’
‘Been getting it wet again, have you?’
‘It’s hard to avoid when you’re travelling by ship.’
‘And you’ve been cleaning it and maintaining the joint like I taught you?’
Hylas grimaced.
Heat seared Danae’s face and stung her eyes as they entered the room.
A forge had been set up beneath the open roof, with swords, spears, shields and an assortment of armour piled against the far wall.
But it was Daedalus’ workbench that drew her gaze.
It was littered with intricate metal contraptions like the one strapped across his brow.
‘As if I didn’t have enough to do,’ the inventor grumbled as he gestured Hylas into a chair. ‘Give it here.’
Hylas eased himself down and loosened the straps of his leg. Daedalus whisked it from him and lay it on the workbench, before flicking one of the circles on his head device to sit in front of his right eye.
‘Just as I thought …’ He gently manoeuvred the ankle joint. ‘Sea water’s stiffened the hinges.’
‘Can you fix it?’ asked Hylas.
Daedalus shot him a glower. ‘Course I can.’
‘Are the items I brought you before ready?’
‘One thing at a time,’ the inventor mumbled as he worked on the wooden leg. ‘So damned impatient.’ He tinkered for a while then carried the leg back to Hylas. ‘There, that should be better.’
As Hylas tightened the straps Danae crossed her arms, a groove between her brows. She could not tell if she found Daedalus’ nonchalance endearing or irritating.
After securing the leg, Hylas used his crutch to stand and took an exploratory couple of steps. He grinned. ‘Much better. Thank you.’
Daedalus grunted, then moved towards the rear of his workshop. He took up something long and slim that had been leaning against one of the wooden walls covered in a length of cloth, and handed it to Danae.
Her skin prickled as her fingers closed around what felt like a metal spear. She tore the fabric away to reveal Poseidon’s trident, whole and gleaming.
Hylas beamed. ‘A weapon fit for the last daughter.’
‘How …’ Danae looked from him to Daedalus. ‘How did you?’
‘I brought it here from Odysseus’ ship,’ said Hylas. ‘I thought it might help you in battle. The rest is all Daedalus.’ He gestured to the inventor.
Daedalus wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
‘Wasn’t easy; I could tell as soon as the lad brought me the pieces that this was different.
Gold’s weak you see. We don’t make weapons out of it, not because it’s expensive, but because it’s soft.
This, though,’ he sucked a breath through his teeth, ‘this was different.’ He seemed to brighten as he spoke, eyes sparking in the dark caverns of their sockets.
‘It has been infused with something to strengthen it.’
Danae thought of the bronze medallion Metis had sent to Odysseus.
The king said its homing properties were powered by his blood.
Perhaps the Olympians used similar methods when forging their golden amulets.
‘I think the gods pour their blood into their homing medallions, perhaps they did the same when forging their weapons. They can store power. I felt it, when I smashed the trident.’
‘Yes,’ Daedalus gestured excitedly towards the weapon, ‘I thought something similar myself. Blood and power, poured together into the molten metal during the forging. I had to be so careful when I melded the pieces together not to upset the constitutional balance of the gold and render it useless.’
‘What of the armour?’ asked Hylas.
‘That will take more time,’ said Daedalus. ‘It is delicately made, and I will need the right proportions to fit it to.’ He looked at Danae.
For a breath she imagined herself encased in gold, striding towards Mount Olympus, the gods quaking before her.
‘Tomorrow I must remain in my seer’s disguise, but I will return after the battle. We can fit the armour then. There will be more fights to come.’
She gripped the stem of the trident with both hands and closed her eyes. She felt its presence waiting to be filled. She plucked a single life-thread and fed it into the gold. Once the connection was made the trident sang in her grasp, like another limb.
‘Are you pleased?’ asked Hylas.
She opened her eyes, smiling.
‘I love it. Thank you, Daedalus. Thank you both.’
The inventor made a rough sound at the back of his throat and nodded once.
‘You should keep it covered, don’t let any of the soldiers see it,’ prompted Hylas.
‘Yes,’ Danae murmured, running her hands along the gold before wrapping it back in its cloth. Then she paused. ‘What became of the iron collar I brought from Delos?’
‘You mean this?’ Daedalus produced the collar from his work bench.
‘I will need that too.’ She reached for it.
‘Ah,’ the inventor’s fingers lingered on the metal. ‘I was hoping to run some experiments; it’s a fascinating contraption, no clear locking mechanism …’
‘If all goes to plan, you may run all the experiments you desire after the battle.’
Daedalus clung on for a heartbeat, then nodded and released the collar.
As they moved towards the doorway Daedalus added, ‘If tomorrow goes in our favour, I’d like to speak more on what you know of the Olympians’ weaponry.’
Danae looked over her shoulder. ‘I know very little, but don’t worry, I’ll come back. I have a destiny to fulfil, remember?’
A shadow passed over Daedalus’ face. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
Danae and Hylas stepped out into the dusky camp, and the inventor slammed the door behind them.
‘He is one of the strangest men I’ve ever met,’ said Danae as they walked through the darkening tents.
‘Because he didn’t kiss the ground at your feet?’
She hit him gently with the end of the wrapped trident. ‘He is one of us, yet in the presence of the last daughter, the only thing that seemed to interest him was divine weaponry.’
Hylas glanced at her. ‘He lost his son.’
‘Oh …’
‘He and his boy, Icarus, were imprisoned by old King Minos of Crete, forced to serve him and only him. But Daedalus planned their escape, spent years fashioning two pairs of wings from the feathers of birds that landed on their tower. Once the contraptions were ready, Daedalus and Icarus flew away from Crete, over the sea. But there was a fault with Icarus’ wings; the wax-like substance Daedalus had used to hold the feathers failed, and the boy fell to his death. ’
‘That’s terrible.’
Hylas nodded. ‘There’s not much that moves him now, apart from his work.’
‘Yet he is moved enough by our cause to fight the gods.’
Hylas paused. ‘Of course. What did the gods ever do for him?’
By the time they returned to their tents the torches were lit, the last vestiges of sunlight dissolved into the wine-dark sea.
‘Thank you,’ said Danae, ‘for everything. I don’t deserve your friendship, but I’m glad I have it.’
Hylas stopped walking.
‘What is it?’
He gestured to the tent beside him. ‘This is mine … You could come in, if you like. Just for company. Unless you’d rather be alone?’
Danae bit down on the inside of her lip. ‘There’s someone I need to speak to.’
Hylas nodded. ‘Of course.’
She hesitated for a heartbeat then stepped forward and drew him into a hug. He stiffened at first, then wrapped his arms around her. They held each other tight. All of a sudden, tears prickled Danae’s eyes.
‘I named my horse after you,’ she whispered.
‘What?’ Hylas drew back.
She blinked the moisture from her eyes. ‘On the Caucasus Mountains, one of Hera’s winged steeds was left behind. He could have flown away but he stayed with me. I named him Hylas.’
His lips parted, colour blooming over his cheeks. Then he closed his mouth and nodded once.
Danae squeezed his arm. ‘You should get some rest. See you at dawn.’ Then she turned and walked away into the swathe of tents.