“For the love of the gods—”
“—don’t encourage him—”
“—I’d rather listen to Hylas sing.”
Hylas delved into his saddle pouch and threw a nut at Atalanta.
Unperturbed, Telamon cleared his throat. “Did you hear the one about the soldier from Sparta? A fellow says to him, ‘Lend me your sword as far as Phrygia,’ and the Spartan says, ‘I haven’t got one that long, but I’ve got something else that is.’”
There was a collective groan. Heracles alone let out a deep chuckle.
“Your jokes are terrible,” called Atalanta.
“Like you could do any better.”
The warrior arched an eyebrow. “A widow is standing by her husband’s grave. A woman approaches and says, ‘Who is it that rests in peace?’ The widow says, ‘Me, now he’s dead.’”
Danae laughed, a genuine mirth that rumbled from her gut and shook her shoulders. Atalanta glanced back, a flicker of surprise briefly softening her brow.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Heracles led them off the road altogether, urging the horses into a gallop across an expanse of dry, shrub-peppered earth. He seemed to know the lay of this land like the creases of his palm. Clouds rolled in from the west, absorbing the light from the sinking sun. By the dying rays, Danae could just make out a crop of dwellings in the distance, nestled in the lower ledges of a small mountain.
She felt disorientated as they joined the rocky path that snaked up toward the village, lost in a sea of earth and stone. She wondered how she would ever find her way back to Naxos. She banished the thought as quickly as it came; she had a long way to go before she could think of returning home.
The mud-brick huts of the little village were painted white, reflecting the last of the sun. As they approached the first clutch of dwellings, people emerged from their doorways. Children in homespun tunics peered out between their parents’ legs. From their expressions, it didn’t look like they were used to visitors.
The group carried on up the mountain path until they reached the center of the village. A small stone well was sunk into a patch of relatively level ground, and a few shops were scattered between the ramshackle dwellings. Danae recognized a blacksmith’s workbench outside one and a domed brick stove outside another that she assumed was the village kapeleion. A couple of men were sitting outside drinking. They eyed the newcomers with suspicion.
The group dismounted and followed Heracles’s lead as he tied his horse to a post beside the kapeleion. An elderly man with a full gray beard and a rounded back brushed aside the faded curtain that hung over the doorway.
“Good to see you again, Dru,” said Heracles.
“Ah! I wondered if you’d ever come through these parts again.” Dru’s voice was surprisingly hearty.
“May the Twelve see you and know you.”
The old barkeeper returned the sacred gesture. “You’ll be wanting a bed then?”
“And food, if you have it.”
Dru nodded. “Leave the horses here, I’ll get Evan to tend to them. Evan!”
There was a clang from inside. A gangly boy came crashing through the curtain, almost knocking into Dru. His eyes widened at the towering height of Heracles and bulged still further at the sight of Atalanta in her silver armor.
“Here you go, lad.” Dolos took an obol from his purse and tossed it to the boy. Evan’s face stretched into a toothy grin.
“Wine, food and bed, in that order,” said Heracles.
Dru nodded and sent Evan scurrying to fetch the victuals, then beckoned them inside.
It transpired the kapeleion was also Dru’s dwelling. The single room was strewn with straw, barrels were stacked against the far wall and a single mat lay under a small window on the left.
Dru delved into a wooden chest and busied himself unrolling another mat. Then he straightened up and spread his arms wide.
“Beds for the ladies, I’m afraid you men will have to take the floor.”
Telamon stood in the doorway, arms folded. “This, over the palace at Mycenae?”
Heracles shot him a withering look. “Dru, I apologize for my companion’s rudeness. Telamon used to be a prince and never quite got over it.”
