Chapter 48 The Eve of War
Danae hurried past soldiers testing the fit of their armour and limbering their bodies, eyes bright and hard as their swords.
It didn’t take her long to find someone who could direct her to the tent Atalanta had claimed for the night, given she was a woman in a silver breastplate amongst a sea of men clad in bronze.
At Atalanta’s dwelling on the outskirts of the Ithacan quarter, nervous energy twitched through Danae’s fingers as she pulled apart the material hanging over the entrance.
Atalanta sat on a spread of animal hides, a bucket of water beside her legs, a wet rag in her hand.
There was no other furniture, save for an upturned barrel that served as a table holding a squat candle melting into a terracotta dish.
The warrior stilled as Danae entered the small space, like a creature disturbed in her den.
For a breath, neither woman moved. Then Atalanta continued to wash the camp grime from her arms.
Danae set down the wrapped trident and collar. ‘I thought you’d be drinking with Telamon.’
Atalanta scrubbed at a graze on her forearm. ‘I’m saving the wine for our victory.’
‘Saving the wine?’ Danae’s eyes narrowed. ‘What have you done with Atalanta?’
The warrior scowled, but the side of her lip curled.
Danae summoned the courage to cross the space between them and sank to her knees.
She took the cloth from Atalanta’s hand and thrust it into the bucket, the salty tang of seawater rising up to greet her.
She squeezed away the excess and began to wipe Atalanta’s other arm.
The warrior let her, eyeing Danae through heavy lids.
‘If Artemis comes tomorrow, leave her to me.’
Danae paused, the rag dripping in her hand. The noise of the camp, the sea and the wind faded into the drum of her heartbeat.
‘If you could ask her why she left you to the mercy of the raiders, would you want that chance?’
A muscle twitched in Atalanta’s jaw. ‘The only thing I want to hear from that bitch is screaming.’
Another question surfaced in Danae’s mind, more words she didn’t dare give breath.
Instead, she said, ‘I’ve been thinking about what Metis said – that she could bring Athena back to the way of the Mother.
’ She ran the rag down Atalanta’s forearm.
‘I wonder if all the Olympians need to die. Some might wish to embrace the path Gaia intended for her chosen Titans.’
‘We have no other choice. They’re too dangerous to be left alive. Anyone with that much power is.’
Danae paused. ‘What about me?’
Atalanta looked up at her. ‘You are different.’
Warmth spread through Danae’s cheeks. She resumed washing the warrior’s arm.
‘If you’re scared about tomorrow, don’t be. Your power has grown stronger since we sailed aboard the Argo. I saw how you fought against Poseidon. And don’t forget you’ve got some pretty good warriors at your side.’
Danae pushed away any thoughts of Atalanta riding into battle. ‘Tell me about your home in Arcadia.’
Atalanta tensed as Danae ran the salt-sodden material over a half-healed gash across her shoulder.
‘The Athenians might have their olive groves and treasure houses, the Thebans their plains of golden barley, but the forests in Arcadia are richer than any kingdom. In the woods across Mount Lykaion, there are no cities; no buildings of stone, no temples to maintain and no tithes to owe. We slept beneath the canopy, wet our lips with fresh springs and feasted on the abundance of the forest.’
‘It sounds perfect.’
‘It was.’
Danae recalled what the warrior had told her aboard the Argo: how a group of raiders had come to her forest and murdered her tribe of hunters. Her family. She continued to stroke the rag down Atalanta’s arm, drinking in the ridge of each scar, the hard swell of her bicep.
‘Did Artemis teach you to hunt?’
‘No. That was Nephele. She was the most talented woman with a bow I’ve ever known.’
‘That’s high praise coming from you.’
‘She had far more skill than I,’ Atalanta said fiercely. ‘She began teaching me to whittle my own arrows the day she found me.’ A whisper of breath hissed between her teeth as Danae moved the cloth down to her mud-splattered calves.
‘So, she stole you from your wolf pack …’ Danae traced the cloth up to the bones of her knee, then higher.
Atalanta grabbed her hand. ‘Enough.’
The warrior’s onyx eyes seemed to burn in the light from the lone candle. Longing expanded through Danae’s chest, but she dared not move. She half expected Atalanta to ask her to leave, then the warrior released her hand.
‘Tell me about Naxos.’
The breath hitched in Danae’s throat. She sat back on her heels.
‘My family live in a hut by the sea. It’s not much, but we have a yard, and for most of my life we kept goats and made cheese from their milk.
When we had enough coin for the ingredients Ma would make the best honey cakes I’ve ever tasted.
’ She almost salivated at the memory. ‘There’s a dusty path that runs down from our gate to the beach and the cove where my father keeps his fishing tub.
I learnt to swim in those waves before I could walk.
’ And in those same waves my sister perished.
‘My brothers live nearby with their wives and babes, and beyond our village is Timon’s apple grove, I used to steal his fruit …
’ she paused. ‘It must sound dull to you.’
Atalanta shook her head.
‘It sounds perfect.’
Danae’s throat thickened. She wanted to talk about Alea, remember all the things her sister had loved and hated.
She had touched on what happened to her sister on Delos, but there had been too much to tell to linger on her memory.
And Danae did not know what would be unleashed if she opened that cavern.
‘You’re scared about going back,’ Atalanta said softly.
Danae squeezed the cloth between her fingers.
‘It is not easy to long for a past you cannot return to. The place remains, but you know it will never be the same. Because of that, I will never return to Arcadia.’
‘Come to Naxos with me,’ Danae blurted. ‘When this is all over.’
The warrior shook her head. ‘You won’t see this face grow old.’
Danae’s hands tightened into fists. ‘You will not die tomorrow.’
Atalanta shrugged. ‘You live the life of a hero and one day you run out of chances. Besides, you’ll look like this forever.’ She gestured at the entirety of Danae. ‘You won’t want me when I’m a withered crone.’
Danae gazed at her as the warm candlelight licked across her face. Even in the year they had been apart she could see a change, a deepening of the faint lines creasing Atalanta’s eyes, her brow. She had never looked more beautiful.
‘How old are you?’
The warrior rested her forearms on her knees. ‘I have seen twenty-six summers.’
Danae raised her eyebrows. ‘Must have been some rough summers.’
Atalanta flicked seawater at her.
Danae smiled, before silence reclaimed the tent. She looked down at the cloth in her hand.
‘Did Artemis say she wouldn’t want you when you grew old?’
‘What?’ Atalanta breathed.
The words pushed their way up Danae’s throat until they spilt over her tongue. ‘Was she more than just your goddess?’
Atalanta’s face spasmed, and, like a creature emerging from the deep, the hatred born of poisoned love the warrior had harboured all this time unfurled into the light.
Finally, Danae understood the conflict that had burned within Atalanta since desire took root between them.
The mirror Danae held to the goddess who had ripped out the warrior’s heart and smashed it beneath her gilded foot.
‘I remind you of her, don’t I?’ Danae whispered.
Atalanta looked stricken.
‘I’m not her,’ she pressed. ‘I know I left you once, but I will never abandon you again. I would never let anyone hurt you the way –’
With a snarl Atalanta pushed her back, knocking over the bucket. Seawater spilt across the ground. Danae scrabbled to her feet as Atalanta did the same. In the enclosed space, they prowled, their faces drawn and flickering in the candlelight.
Then Atalanta pounced, and Danae slammed into her, both women falling together in a heap of limbs on the animal hides. Danae gained the upper hand, squirming on top, but Atalanta twisted her foot around Danae’s thigh and flipped her onto her back. Danae hit out, fists meeting flesh and armour.
‘We might die tomorrow! Why won’t you just admit …’ Danae faltered as she tasted salt.
Tears dripped from Atalanta’s face onto her own.
‘Atalanta …’
The warrior let go and scrambled back, crouching as she wiped her cheeks. Danae remained kneeling on the hides, her breath shallow.
For a while neither of them spoke. Then Atalanta murmured, ‘You are nothing like her. And I am glad.’
Danae reached across the space between them and took the warrior’s hand, kissing her calloused palm.
Atalanta moaned. ‘Danae …’
She drew Atalanta’s hand upwards to the curve of her breast.
‘Tell me you don’t want this.’
‘Oh, I want …’ Another half-growled moan rumbled from the warrior’s throat.
Danae pulled the other woman towards her. Longing ripped through her like fire as their bodies pressed together and they tumbled onto the hides.
Atalanta caressed Danae’s breasts through the fabric of her dress, her nipples hardening at the warrior’s touch.
Then Atalanta’s fingers travelled up, tracing the ridge of her collarbone to curl beneath the hard angle of her jaw.
She lowered her head and kissed Danae’s neck, each press of her mouth burning, teasing until finally those lips that Danae had dreamed of tasting met her own.
It was more than she had imagined. The sharpness of reality and the blaze of her senses sang through her body as Atalanta’s tongue played with hers. Danae drank her in, hands prying beneath Atalanta’s armour, struggling at the straps of her breastplate.
The warrior’s kiss deepened, her fingers surging up into Danae’s tangled crop of hair, raking her scalp. The breath hitched in Danae’s throat, fear curling around her spine.