The archers were not their only greeting. Dangling on long ropes, suspended from the tops of the walls, were bodies.
‘Shit,’ muttered Palamedes.
‘Who are they?’ asked Danae.
Agamemnon’s cousin glanced at her. ‘The scouting party Diomedes sent out.’
Nestor sighed. ‘This does not bode well.’
Odysseus’ brow was studiously creased, eyes etched with practised concern. Only the barest twitch of his mouth betrayed him.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Hylas, eyeing the archers.
‘We wait,’ said Nestor.
Danae wrenched her gaze from the hanging bodies, and her eyes fell on an old oak tree, standing alone before the Scaean Gates, the main entrance to Troy. Its lower branches were hung with a myriad of figurines, jewellery and pieces of fine cloth. Painted vases leant against its thick, mottled trunk, and scrolls of parchment were tucked into the crevices of its bark.
‘The oak is sacred to the Trojans,’ said Odysseus, smoothing his horse’s mane as it tossed its head. ‘They believe it is connected to the fates. A twin of those holy trees thatgrow in the sacred grove at Dodona. They adorn it with gifts, like a shrine, hoping destiny will look kindly on them.’ He winked at Danae so subtly, she almost wondered if she’d imagined it.
There was a thunderous crack, then the vast doors of the Scaean Gates rumbled open. Between the gap streamed a line of soldiers; swords sheathed at their sides, spears in one hand, shields in the other.
Danae grasped her horse’s reins, while imagining herself sinking into the river of calm, and summoned her life-threads.
Odysseus drew his steed up beside her mare, hissing, ‘Do not reveal yourself.’
Danae’s jaw tightened, but she let her threads disperse within herself.
The soldiers halted, and a man whose crimson-plumed helm marked him as their captain came to stand before his infantry, eyes narrowed beneath his helmet.
‘State your intent, Greeks.’
‘We are a peace envoy. We seek an audience with King Priam.’
The captain met his words with a stony gaze.
‘I evokexenia,’ Nestor pressed, ‘Zeus’ sacred rule of hospitality. We come as strangers seeking shelter and therefore must be permitted to enter Troy unharmed.’
There was a pause before the captain replied, ‘I shall relay your message to our king.’
The soldiers retreated between the doors, and the Scaean Gates closed once more.
Time trickled by at an excruciating pace. Danae had no way of knowing how long they waited, for the sun’s progress was cloaked by a persistent armour of cloud. She glanced up at the archers, their arrows still prone, and drew her cloak tightaround her. If the Trojan guard atop the walls were tiring, they did not show it.
There was no denying winter’s touch in the creeping darkness and the chill wind that bit to the bone. She caught herself thinking of the old lie, that Persephone must have returned to the Underworld and the earth now withered with Demeter’s grief. She barely dared admit to herself that sometimes she longed to return to blissful unknowing. To put down the weight of truth and once more breathe the sweet ignorance of lies.
‘If they grant us an audience, let Nestor do the talking,’ Palamedes said pointedly to Odysseus.
‘I will do whatever needs to be done,’ countered the king.
Palamedes huffed out a breath. ‘I know you, Odysseus. You are loyal to none but yourself.’
‘I have pledged my army to Agamemnon just as you have.’
‘Enough!’ Nestor cut between the two generals. ‘It is men’s lives we hold in our hands. You would do well to remember that.’
Before either general could reply, there was a groan, and the great doors of the Scaean Gates opened once more. The captain and his men filed out.
‘By the order of King Priam, I am to escort you to the palace. Dismount and remove your weapons.’
