Hylas nodded. ‘There’s not much that moves him now, apart from his work.’
‘Yet he is moved enough by our cause to fight the gods.’
Hylas paused. ‘Of course. What did the gods ever do for him?’
By the time they returned to their tents the torches were lit, the last vestiges of sunlight dissolved into the wine-dark sea.
‘Thank you,’ said Danae, ‘for everything. I don’t deserve your friendship, but I’m glad I have it.’
Hylas stopped walking.
‘What is it?’
He gestured to the tent beside him. ‘This is mine … You could come in, if you like. Just for company. Unless you’d rather be alone?’
Danae bit down on the inside of her lip. ‘There’s someone I need to speak to.’
Hylas nodded. ‘Of course.’
She hesitated for a heartbeat then stepped forward and drew him into a hug. He stiffened at first, then wrapped his arms around her. They held each other tight. All of a sudden, tears prickled Danae’s eyes.
‘I named my horse after you,’ she whispered.
‘What?’ Hylas drew back.
She blinked the moisture from her eyes. ‘On the Caucasus Mountains, one of Hera’s winged steeds was left behind. He could have flown away but he stayed with me. I named him Hylas.’
His lips parted, colour blooming over his cheeks. Then he closed his mouth and nodded once.
Danae squeezed his arm. ‘You should get some rest. See you at dawn.’ Then she turned and walked away into the swathe of tents.
48. The Eve of War
Danae hurried past soldiers testing the fit of their armour and limbering their bodies, eyes bright and hard as their swords. It didn’t take her long to find someone who could direct her to the tent Atalanta had claimed for the night, given she was a woman in a silver breastplate amongst a sea of men clad in bronze.
At Atalanta’s dwelling on the outskirts of the Ithacan quarter, nervous energy twitched through Danae’s fingers as she pulled apart the material hanging over the entrance.
Atalanta sat on a spread of animal hides, a bucket of water beside her legs, a wet rag in her hand. There was no other furniture, save for an upturned barrel that served as a table holding a squat candle melting into a terracotta dish. The warrior stilled as Danae entered the small space, like a creature disturbed in her den. For a breath, neither woman moved. Then Atalanta continued to wash the camp grime from her arms.
Danae set down the wrapped trident and collar. ‘I thought you’d be drinking with Telamon.’
Atalanta scrubbed at a graze on her forearm. ‘I’m saving the wine for our victory.’
‘Saving the wine?’ Danae’s eyes narrowed. ‘What have you done with Atalanta?’
The warrior scowled, but the side of her lip curled.
Danae summoned the courage to cross the space between them and sank to her knees. She took the cloth from Atalanta’s hand and thrust it into the bucket, the salty tang of seawater rising up to greet her. She squeezed away the excessand began to wipe Atalanta’s other arm. The warrior let her, eyeing Danae through heavy lids.
‘If Artemis comes tomorrow, leave her to me.’
Danae paused, the rag dripping in her hand. The noise of the camp, the sea and the wind faded into the drum of her heartbeat.
‘If you could ask her why she left you to the mercy of the raiders, would you want that chance?’
A muscle twitched in Atalanta’s jaw. ‘The only thing I want to hear from that bitch is screaming.’
Another question surfaced in Danae’s mind, more words she didn’t dare give breath. Instead, she said, ‘I’ve been thinking about what Metis said – that she could bring Athena back to the way of the Mother.’ She ran the rag down Atalanta’s forearm. ‘I wonder if all the Olympians need to die. Some might wish to embrace the path Gaia intended for her chosen Titans.’
