They did as they were bid, four soldiers relieving them of their horses and arms, while the others formed a barrier around them and turned to march the peace envoy into the city.
A crowd had gathered on the other side. As they entered the streets of Troy, Danae could see very little beyond the armoured bodies of the guards, but she could feel the hatred pulsing from the Trojans. She half expected their party to be attacked as the soldiers barrelled them through the streets,yet the people of Troy remained at a distance, their loathing radiating as though baked into the very stones.
The biting chill of the sea’s breath was kept out by the high walls, its keen replaced by the rumble of the city. The air smelled of spice, stone, livestock and the occasional waft of roasted nuts. As the guards marched the envoy through the streets, between their heads Danae caught glimpses of merchants selling crates of fresh fruits, vegetables and barrels of fish, people bustling past with large vases of grain and smaller amphorae of oil and wine. Diomedes had been right; they must have a hidden supply route into the city.
Like Athens, the Trojan citadel was raised atop a hill in the northern sector. The wealth of Troy was evident from its buildings. Rather than wood, many were constructed from the same yellow stone as the fortress walls, but it was the palace that truly displayed the city’s riches. Danae peered above the guards’ heads at the twelve gold statues sitting atop the balustrades, fashioned in the likeness of the gods. The great building itself was lavishly painted, the intricately carved columns and roof friezes bright against the darkening sky. Two large fig trees grew from beneath the stones next to the entrance, their ripe fruit hanging like bruised raindrops aching to fall.
After climbing the acropolis’s summit, the Greek envoy entered the palace through a pair of vast oak doors detailed with bronze. The guards finally peeled away, and they were greeted by the smoky perfume of incense, wafting from hanging braziers cut with patterns, their flames scattering diamonds of light across the tiled floor. Gilt chairs plumped with cushions rested against the walls, and more painted pillars lined the expansive corridor, guarding frescos of dancing nymphs in lush grottos with birds flying about their heads and lions prowling by their sides.
‘I can see why Helen left Mycenae,’ whispered Hylas.
There was a hiss and the clinking of metal. Then they were ushered at sword point down an expansive passage and shown into a large megaron, packed with richly dressed courtiers, many draped in jewel-coloured robes.
The cacophony of voices stilled as they entered, and silence crashed over the room.
Danae looked at Hylas and caught a flicker of her own trepidation reflected in her friend’s eyes.
‘The Greek peace envoy,’ announced the captain of their guard.
Low muttering and murderous glances echoed through the room as the gathered Trojans parted, clearing a path to reveal a large hearth, framed by four saffron pillars. The royal family of Troy sat on a raised dais behind the fire pit, enthroned in high-backed chairs of bronze.
Danae squinted through the heady smoke, matching their faces to the descriptions Odysseus had given her.
King Priam presided from the central throne. He was elderly, his thinning white hair crested by a golden crown studded with sapphires. His cheeks were drawn and sallow, his hazel eyes yellowed with age. To his right sat Queen Hecuba, who appeared to be at least a decade his junior, her rich brown skin creased with worry, a matching gold band nestled upon her braided, silver-streaked hair.
On either side of the king and queen sat two younger men, their thick, dark hair worn long to the napes of the necks. The man on the left Danae assumed to be Prince Hector, leader of the Trojan army, from the scars on his muscle-bound limbs. Beside him was his wife, Andromache, a handsome woman with sharp, intelligent eyes. Prince Paris sat to the right of his parents, dressed in a fine tunic spun from emerald thread with a delicate golden trim, hisentire body tensed with unfettered loathing. Danae’s gaze slid swiftly over the twist of his handsome features, to settle on the woman next to him.
This, undoubtedly, was Helen.
It was rumoured that, like Heracles, she was the daughter of Zeus and a mortal woman, Leda, the former Queen of Sparta. If it were true, Danae could see nothing of her father in her features.
Objectively, Helen was perfect. Her face looked as though it had been carved from the purest white marble by a sculptor of divine skill. Her lips were full and flushed, her eyes large and honey-brown, framed by thick black lashes. Her hair was like liquid gold, threaded through with jewels that were dull in comparison to her beauty. Yet there lived in the princess a coldness that sapped her radiance. She seemed to Danae like an ornate shell. A once bright star extinguished, left with the bitter taint of what it cost to live in a world of men and look the way she did.
Danae found herself thinking of Atalanta. She traced the warrior’s features in her mind, the tilt of her mouth, the ridges permanently etched between her brows, the scars that marked her battle-hardened limbs. She knew which woman she would prefer to gaze upon.
As the Greek envoy approached the dais, Paris placed a ring-encrusted hand over Helen’s. She twitched away, threaded her fingers together and pressed them into her lap.
The tendons in Danae’s neck tightened. Standing at the foot of the dais was a woman dressed in the crimson robes and matching veil of a priestess of Apollo. The memory of Danae’s imprisonment at the hands of the priestesses in Delphi prickled her skin. Beneath the translucent veil, the woman’s expression grew quizzical, and Danae realized that she was glaring. She drew a breath and tamed her face into a mask of calm.
‘Bow,’ whispered Odysseus as they reached the hearth.
All five of them lowered themselves to their knees, the guards fanning out behind them. In the silence, a trickle of sweat fled down Danae’s neck, her head pulsing with the hearth-smoke. The nobility of Troy may be draped in finery, but beneath their jewels their eyes blazed with intemperate bloodlust.
‘Three Greek generals walk willingly into my palace.’ King Priam’s voice was reedy, yet it cracked through the room like a whip. ‘It would be a blow indeed to Agamemnon’s army if I were to have you all executed.’ He glanced at the guards, and they moved forward.
Danae’s breath quickened. She shifted her weight ever so slightly. Then Hylas’ fingers brushed against hers. A warning.
Nestor intoned the sacred greeting, then leant on Odysseus’ arm as he heaved himself to his feet. ‘I, Nestor, King of Pylos, Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and Palamedes, Prince of Euboea, come before you in peace with the hope to avoid war between our two peoples.’
Priam raised a hand, and his guards halted.
‘You have already sent spies to infiltrate our city,’ said Hector. ‘How do we know this is not another attempt to glean information about our defences?’
‘We swear on the waters of the Styx,’ continued Nestor. ‘All we seek is to return what was taken from the King of Sparta. The proof of our word will be in our ships leaving your shore never to return once this request is fulfilled.’
‘Helen and I are married,’ Paris growled. ‘She is Trojan now, by law and in the eyes of the gods. Menelaus can find himself another wife.’
Before Nestor could reply, Odysseus stepped towards the hearth. ‘King Priam, I would ask you to imagine that yourown dear wife, or yours, Prince Hector, were snatched without your knowledge by a man you treated as an honoured guest –’
