The corners of Danae’s mouth twitched.
“And yet you don’t see our faces on the amphorae,” said Telamon, as he swung himself onto a dappled mare.
“I’m not taking her.” Atalanta spat on the ground and kicked her horse into a trot.
“You can ride with me,” said Hylas.
As he lifted her up, it suddenly occurred to Danae that she’d never ridden a horse before. Trying to slide on as gracefully as her dress would allow, she clamped her legs either side of the animal’s torso and clutched the saddle so tightly her knuckles turned white. It couldn’t be that dissimilar to riding a donkey, just faster and with further to fall.
Hylas slung himself up in front of her in one deft motion.
“All right back there?”
“Fine,” Danae said through clenched teeth.
“You’re right to hold on tight.” Hylas grasped the reins. “Heracles likes to ride fast.”
Tall cypress trees blurred past, their ghostly bodies smudging into a continuous streak of gray. Danae clung to Hylas, the wind whipping her face and tearing at her cloak. Once she overcame her initial fear of falling, she found riding exhilarating. Galloping was what she imagined flying felt like.
Heracles led them off the main road away from the town, forging a path across the open scrubland. After a while she smelled a change in the air. The cool trace of a sea breeze. She took a deep breath, enjoying the taste of salt on her tongue. Then a strip of silver glimmered on the horizon, and the Bay of Corinth appeared before them.
She shivered. Manto’s body was out there somewhere in all that water. She hoped they’d found their way to the Asphodel Meadows. Perhaps they’d met Alea there. The thought brought her a whisper of comfort.
In front of them, Heracles slowed. Hylas tugged the reins and brought their horse to a steady trot.
“We’ll camp here for the night,” said the hero. “Get a few hours’ sleep before dawn.”
They stopped on a bank of rough grass near the bay. A collection of stone ruins stood stark against the moonlit sky. All that was left was a circle of jagged slabs, like the crumbling crown of a long-dead giant.
Hylas dismounted and lifted Danae down from the saddle. As her feet hit the ground, pain shot through her legs. She stumbled.
“You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ll get used to it. The first day of riding is always the worst.”
“I know,” she lied.
His mouth quirked. “Of course you do.”
Once the horses were tethered to a nearby crop of trees, they sat on the dusty ground inside the remnants of the ancient structure. Dolos produced some bread and cured meat from his saddle pack, and they ate for the most part in silence, without a fire. Danae pulled her cloak tightly around her as a chill breeze whistled through the old stones.
“We should send word to Eurystheus once we reach Iolcos,” said Dolos. “He won’t be happy that we’ve disobeyed his command.”
Danae wondered why Heracles took orders from the King of Mycenae, but she didn’t dare ask. Her place traveling with the hero and his companions was already precarious.
Heracles took a swig from a waterskin. “The old goat will find out where we’ve gone soon enough.”
Dolos’s lips parted as though he were about to disagree, then he pressed them together again.
At the risk of sounding naive, Danae asked, “Who is Jason?”
“Good question.” Telamon looked at Dolos.
“I only know what was sent out in the decree,” said the healer. “King Pelias of Iolcos has commissioned a ship, captained by this Jason, to sail to Colchis and retrieve the golden fleece. I imagine he must be a seasoned sea captain.”
“A lot of effort for some old sheep fur,” said Atalanta.
