She stared at him, biting the inside of her lip. What in Tartarus was he playing at? Peace was exactly what they wanted to avoid.
‘Eager to leave us again so soon?’ asked Palamedes, taking a deep draught from his cup.
Odysseus gave the hint of a smile. ‘Given that I persuaded Achilles to return when he forswore setting foot on Trojan soil, I would think my negotiating power an asset.’
Nestor nodded. ‘Odysseus’ silver tongue would indeed be a boon.’
‘I doubt even a wordsmith as adept as Odysseus will convince Priam to agree to our demands, but as you wish.’ Agamemnon considered the King of Ithaca. ‘Nestor, Odysseus and my cousin, Palamedes, will form the peace envoy. You have tonight to brief your second-in-commands should anything befall you behind those walls.’
The chosen envoy nodded.
Agamemnon waved a hand. ‘You are all dismissed.’
Danae’s heart hammered against her ribs as she followed Odysseus outside. The two guards, Sinon and Evenor, hadbeen waiting for them and took up their usual haunt in Danae’s shadow. They were all forced into a jog as the King of Ithaca hurried through the winding tracks between the tents.
‘What have you done?’ she hissed.
Odysseus barely glanced back at her. ‘You will have to come with me, I cannot risk leaving you here. We will bring Hylas too –’
‘Odysseus!’ She grabbed his arm, and finally he spun around to face her. ‘Why did you volunteer for the peace talks?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I would have thought that obvious. To ensure they fail.’
‘Wait here.’ Odysseus gestured Danae into his tent, leaving Sinon and Evenor once more standing guard at the entrance.
Danae chewed her lip, looking around the inside of the makeshift dwelling. It was sparse compared to the grandeur of Agamemnon’s war tent, housing only a pallet, a chest, a couple of stools and a table fashioned from two barrels and three short planks hammered together.
She padded over to the chest and heaved open the lid. It was filled with clothing, mainly tunics. Her brow furrowed as she delved in and pulled out a faded green dress. It smelt faintly of pine trees and a spice she did not recognize. As the length of the fabric unfurled, something fell from its folds. She stooped to retrieve it.
A horse carved from wood. A child’s toy. Given the stains and smooth grain of its ears, it appeared to have been well loved.
A well opened inside her, the memory of Arius’ first birthday and the figurine of Heracles that Santos had carved for him, dragging her into its depths.
Then a bout of raucous laughter pricked her ears, drawing her back from the darkness.
Hastily folding the dress and figurine back into the chest, she stepped towards the entrance of the tent, remembered the guards and paused, then crept to the rear and pulled the fabric away from the earth before slipping outside.
The tang of whetted bronze sharpened the air. There was a nervous pulse to the camp, the soldiers moving in clusters about the tents, grim-faced, limbs streaked with grime, waiting for the order that might end their lives before the next sunrise.
Danae navigated through the Ithacan dwellings, following the clamour she’d heard. She emerged into a small clearing where several pigs and goats were tethered in a makeshift pen. Benches had been dragged through the mud, upon which sat several rowdy soldiers. More crowded round the edges of the tents, passing skins of wine between them.
At the centre, straddling two benches, was Telamon, belting out an oldkapeleiontune with a large amphora clutched in his hands.
On a moonlit night when the waves are clear,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
Lost on the water, searching for land,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
Every time Telamon called out the chorus line, the men raised their voices and swigged from their skins.
Trade him a fish, trade him a lover,
He’ll tell you the truth for a belly of plunder,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
