He’ll appear as a seal, lion or tree,
Wrestle him still and he’ll spill for thee,
Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!
‘Drink to the Old Man of the Sea.’ A familiar voice, rough and rich, whispered in her ear.
Danae glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Atalanta proffered her a wineskin. She took it, her throat burning with the strength of the unmixed grapes. She coughed, but managed to splutter, ‘Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!’ in time with the crowd.
Atalanta patted her on the back. ‘So, you survived the war tent.’
Danae leant close, murmuring, ‘Odysseus and I are to enter Troy as a peace envoy with a couple of the other generals. We must ensure the talks fail.’
Atalanta’s brow darkened. ‘Surely Odysseus can go alone. You should stay here.’
But if the slippery cove strikes a deal
Be sure to keep an even keel
Or he’ll drag you down down down
Until you drown drown drown
While the men chanted, Telamon tipped the amphora to his lips, clasping both handles, wine spilling down his chin to cries of, ‘Drink to the Old Man of the Sea!’
‘Odysseus wants me by his side,’ whispered Danae. ‘And I am more powerful than any man here, or any Trojan soldier. I can look after myself.’
Atalanta stared at her, eyes hard as marble. ‘If you die in Troy, I will climb those walls, dig up your body and kill you all over again for being so damned stupid.’
Danae cracked a smile. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’
There was a crash, then a cry from the benches.
Danae’s head snapped round. Telamon had dropped the amphora, shards shattered about his feet. His wine-stained jaw hung slack. Danae followed his gaze to a young man who had appeared at the edge of the crowd. He was tall and broad, his freckled cheeks stained pink from the chill seabreeze, his periwinkle eyes bright beneath a crop of flame-red hair.
‘Ajax?’ Telamon breathed.
The young man glanced about, bemused. ‘Who wants to know?’
Telamon’s mouth moved soundlessly before he managed to say, ‘It’s me …’
Ajax stiffened, realization dawning.
‘What’s this? A lovers’ reunion?’ called one of the soldiers.
Ajax’s face ripened to the colour of the Ithacan flag, then he spun around and stormed away through the tents.
Telamon stood stupefied for a heartbeat, then he leapt from the benches and ran after Ajax.
‘Is that his son –’ Danae began, but Atalanta put a finger to her lips and tugged Danae after the two men.
They stalked the pair through the fabric dwellings, picking their way between taut ropes and groups of roaming soldiers until Atalanta pulled Danae behind a stack of barrels.
‘Please …’ Telamon called after the younger man, ‘Ajax, wait!’
Ajax spun around, his muscular arms folded across his chest.
‘You’ve … grown since last I saw you.’ Telamon offered a smile. Ajax did not return it.
