The silence screeched like a blade over stone.
‘How is your mother?’ Telamon offered.
Ajax’s eyes darkened. ‘You don’t get to ask that.’
Telamon looked down at his feet.
‘Why are you here?’
Telamon lifted his gaze. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’ve come to fight … I didn’t know you’d be here.’
Moisture blossomed in Ajax’s eyes. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
Telamon braved half a step towards him. ‘Please … son.’
Ajax flinched. ‘Stay away from me, or I swear on the Styx you’ll regret it.’ He turned and stormed away, leaving his father staring after him, shoulders rounded.
Danae took a step towards Telamon, but Atalanta grabbed her arm, shaking her head.
Telamon dragged a hand across his mouth, then disappeared between the tents.
‘He will need time,’ said Atalanta. ‘And a good drink.’
Danae looked back at the warrior, and it occurred to her that for the first time since leaving Delos, they were alone. Atalanta’s hand still rested on her arm, her skin warm beneath the warrior’s fingers.
Atalanta glanced down at her hand, then at Danae. She did not remove it.
Danae’s lips parted, the air thickening with each breath. She knew she should speak, should move, but she could do neither.
‘I did not lie with her.’
The moment shattered. Danae flinched from Atalanta’s touch.
The warrior swiftly brought her hand to her side, fist clenched. ‘The princess on Skyros … I didn’t –’
‘I don’t care what you do.’ Danae drew her cloak tightly around her torso.
Pain flickered across Atalanta’s face.
Twin barbs of sorrow and satisfaction prised their way between Danae’s ribs.
‘I should find Odysseus.’ She spun on her heel and stalked away, before she could utter another word she knew she would regret.
43. The Fortress City
The following dawn, under an iron sky, Danae, Nestor, Palamedes, Odysseus and Hylas guided their horses over the ford bridging the river Scamander, then rode onwards across the Trojan Plain. Danae could not fathom how Odysseus had convinced Agamemnon to allow Hylas to ride out with these generals. Another testament to his silver tongue.
Her jet-black cloak billowed behind her, whipping the flanks of her dappled mare. It felt strange to ride without having to tuck her legs back to accommodate wings. The loss of Pegasus, the horse she had once called Hylas, burrowed like a worm in her gut. She reminded herself that he was just an animal, yet somehow his abandoning her cut far deeper than Heracles leaving. Her throat tightened as she banished thoughts of the hero flying away from Delos on the back of her once loyal companion.
The winged horse’s old namesake cantered ahead. She wondered if the fates had laughed as they took away one Hylas, only to deliver her another.
Sometimes she doubted that she had any choice at all; that no matter what she did, destiny would always correct her path, like a sailor tweaking a sail in a changing wind. A dark thread forever pulling her taut. No matter where she travelled, it would always drag her towards Olympus, sweeping everyone she cared for into its web. Perhaps this war with Troy was inevitable. It eased the heaviness in her soul tothink that the lives of all those who would die might not rest solely on her shoulders.
The city of Troy seemed to expand as they charged towards it, stone towers stretching to pierce the clouds.
They slowed as they neared the walls. Specks of bronze glinted at them from high above, archers poised to rain down their arrows in a heartbeat. Danae’s pulse quickened. She did not know if she had the power to protect them if all the soldiers let fly at once.
Nestor held up a hand, and they drew up the horses.
