Danae knew her cue. She stepped forward, threading herself between the guests to stand before Lycomedes.
‘I am Dione, seer to King Odysseus and humble servant of the gods. With your permission, I will sacrifice to the Twelve at dusk to honour your daughter’s marriage.’
Lycomedes stared at her, then nodded slowly, the colour returning to his cheeks.
‘If it is the gods’ will, so be it.’
41. Love and Duty
Danae stood before a stone altar overlooking the sea. The sky was a ripening bruise, the bright carcass of the sun half sunk beneath the waves. Behind her, the wedding guests were silent as the dusk chorus of Skyros serenaded the dying day.
In one hand, Danae raised a knife; the other held firm to the rope collar of a bound goat. She brought down the blade. As the animal’s blood trickled into the rivets carved into the altar stone, her mind ran with it, sinking deep into the soil.
She recalled a chamber in the depths of the earth, another’s blood spilt by her hand. In Danae’s memory, Persephone’s lips parted, rasping her last, guttering breath.
Take its threads, hissed the voice, dragging her back to the world of the living.
Her limbs ached as the goat’s life-threads seeped away into the ground, but she held firm. She would be ruled by the voice no longer.
Filling her lungs, she lifted her bloody hands to the sky.
‘Goddess of Love, Aphrodite, hear my prayer. Bless the union of Achilles and Deidamia, hold them forever in your grace. May their love endure, like the deathless gods of Olympus.’
She turned to the young couple kneeling behind her. Deidamia’s eyes shimmered as she clutched her new husband’s hand. Achilles stared out over the waves, as though he wished he were somewhere far away.
‘Go with the blessing of the Twelve,’ Danae murmured, daubing a fingerprint of blood on each of their foreheads.
Once the ceremony was complete, the guests removed their masks and gathered in the feast hall. Despite Lycomedes’ previous hostility, as was fitting, he respected Odysseus’ rank by inviting his fellow king, Danae, Telamon, Atalanta and Hylas to join him and his family at the head table, while the Ithacan soldiers sat with his courtiers at long wooden tables spread across the rest of the hall.
Despite the pomp of the wedding festivities, there was a shabbiness to the palace at Skyros Danae found comforting. The painted frescos along the walls depicting harmonious scenes of farming and hunting were peeling in places, their rich colours faded. Several of the stone pillars were chipped around their joins, and a few wooden joists were in need of replacing. Another reason, perhaps, why Lycomedes was reluctant to lend his support to the allied Greek army. War was an expensive endeavour.
The king eased himself to his feet and lifted his cup to the ceiling.
‘The first drink I give to Zeus, King of the Heavens and Lord of Hospitality. I honour these guests with all my home has to offer in your name.’ He flicked his wrist, and a splash of wine splattered the stone floor.
Around the room, the people of Skyros raised their fingers to their foreheads. Danae swiftly followed the gesture.
‘Now,’ proclaimed Lycomedes, ‘eat!’
They fell upon the food. Danae licked her fingers clean of honey, fruit juice and boar grease, each bite more delicious than the last. She was halfway through a mouthful of bread soaked in olive oil when Atalanta abandoned her seat to slip in beside the woman she’d danced with earlier. A pretty girl, one of Lycomedes’ daughters, her silken hair plaited like earsof sun-ripened wheat. The warrior had been making her way through Lycomedes’ wine store since they arrived and was now loose-limbed and heavy-lidded. She leant towards the blonde woman, whispering something Danae could not hear. In response the woman laughed, peering at the warrior from beneath her lashes.
Danae swiftly lost her appetite. She signalled to a servant hovering behind their table with an amphora and, once her cup was brimming with wine, drained the vessel. At the prickle of eyes on her, she turned to Hylas, who sat beside her.
He glanced away.
‘What?’
Hylas toyed with a bunch of indigo grapes. ‘It is strange, for someone who so skilfully hid their truth while aboard theArgo, you wear your desire for all to see.’
Her lips parted. She stole another look at Atalanta then scowled at Hylas. ‘Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong.’
Her gaze flicked once more to the warrior. Atalanta was now feeding the Princess of Skyros a honey cake. Her stomach twisted.
‘It is no easy thing,’ Hylas murmured, ‘caring for someone who carries the fate of humanity on their shoulders.’
Danae’s head snapped towards him. ‘If she cared for me, she would not …’ She fell silent at the anguish writ plain on Hylas’ face. In a heartbeat it vanished, like smoke, leaving her questioning if it had really been there at all.
‘Achilles,’ called Odysseus from across the table. ‘Tell me, how did you come to settle on Skyros?’
