As they curved around the jutting lip of land opposite the city, the largest collection of ships she’d ever seen came into view. They clustered around the western side of the coast; full-bellied triremes anchored in the deep, built to carry entire armies and their mounts on multiple decks, and swift fleets of smaller one- and two-sail penteconters rested on the beach looking like fishing tubs next to the great warships. Beyond these vessels, another temporary city had sprung up. A patchwork of tents that stretched like barnacles along the shore, fifty deep in places. Flags hailing from kingdoms across Greece fluttered above their peaks, hazed by gusts of smoke rising from makeshift hearths.
As Odysseus’ navigator steered their ship between the triremes, the wind changed, blowing over a cacophony of rumbling feet, clamouring voices, clanging armour and the bleating of livestock. Danae swiftly raised a hand to her mouth, the stench of animals and unwashed bodies clogging her throat.
Once their penteconter was beached, Odysseus instructed his men to report to the Ithacan quarter of the camp.
‘Go with them,’ he said to Hylas, Telamon and Atalanta. ‘Dione and I will escort Achilles to the war tent.’
Atalanta crossed her arms. ‘We stay with Dione.’
A burst of lightness sang through Danae’s chest. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Atalanta’s scowl deepened, but she conceded a nod.
Danae and Odysseus waited for Achilles to descend from his ship, with Patroclus and another Myrmidon soldier. He looked magnificent, clad in an embroidered tunic of cornflower blue, overlaid with a bronze breastplate. Jewels glinted at his wrists and ankles, and his hair was half braided and curled upon his head, the length of it left to tumble down his back in sea-teased waves.
Once their party was complete, they set off between the tents, down a path of sandy earth beaten into channels of hard mud by the tread of thousands of feet. Men huddled around campfires, some roasting spits of meat, some cleaning their armour, a few sparring between the dwellings. Several paused as the group passed, their eyes brightening at the sight of Achilles, then shifting to Danae, drinking in her cropped hair and long black gown.
Whispers began to follow them, soldiers trailing after them with hope-slackened faces.
‘Achilles!’
‘The best of the Greeks!’
‘He has returned to the army.’
They stopped at a tent much larger than the others, the Mycenaean flag flying from its height, its awning guarded by two grim-faced soldiers.
‘Shall we?’ said Odysseus.
‘After you, King of Ithaca.’ Achilles curled into an exuberant bow.
Odysseus arched an eyebrow, then turned to the guards.‘Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and Achilles, best of the Greeks, seek an audience with King Agamemnon.’
One of the soldiers drew back the tarpaulin. Danae willed her face to remain calm as they stepped inside the cavernous tent.
Scented braziers hung from the sturdy wooden beams supporting the structure, yet they did little to mask the reek of stale sweat. A large table dominated the space, resting on a floor of mud-encrusted oxhides. A vast map lay unfurled across its surface, and bronze dishes cupping candles pinned the corners. A group of men were clustered around it, goblets of wine in their hands.
‘… the city is too large to encircle. We may have blocked the Trojans from using their main gates, but my scouts spotted supply wagons coming in from the north of Mount Ida.’ A man dressed in the armour of a general pressed a finger to the parchment. ‘I’ve sent a company to discover the entrance they’re funnelling goods to and cut them off. Then we’ll starve the bastards out.’
An elderly man shook his head. He was dressed in a long maroon robe, his ebony skin creased with age, his curly hair entirely white. ‘Diomedes, you are forgetting the most important principle of war: it must be undertaken only as a final resort. After all, thousands of lives are at stake. We must first sue for a peaceful return of Helen –’
‘Look around you, Nestor.’ A man with auburn hair and a sharp jaw flung his arms wide, spilling wine on the carpet. ‘The soldiers in this camp did not sail all the way across the Aegean to sit idle in their tents then go home again. Troy must burn for what Paris did. What he took from me.’
‘Menelaus is right.’ A man with sallow skin and a hawkish nose turned to Nestor. ‘We have been camped on their shore for months. The Trojans have had every opportunityto surrender Helen, yet they remain cowering behind their topless towers. They have brought war upon themselves.’
Nestor shook his head. ‘I vehemently disagree. We are a hostile force, therefore it is our duty to initiate the customary peaceful negotiations before –’
Odysseus cleared his throat.
All five men turned. Odysseus bowed to the one standing at the head of the table who had his back to them.
‘May the Twelve see you and know you, King Agamemnon. This is my seer, Dione, and Achilles, returned to us with his Myrmidons.’
Agamemnon turned. The ruler of Mycenae looked every inch the King of Men. There was no crown upon his head, no armour encasing his powerful body, yet every cord of muscle radiated violence. His long, dark hair was threaded with silver, as was his beard. His face was a clumsy mirror to that of his brother, his jaw heavier, his features less refined. Still, the familial resemblance was undeniable. Agamemnon and Menelaus: the brothers Atreides.
Agamemnon’s small, earthy eyes flicked swiftly over Odysseus and Danae, then settled on Achilles.
‘The best of the Greeks returns.’ He desiccated each word until only sharpness remained.
