‘That much is clear,’ said Zeus, striding towards the door as a couple of the blue-clothed nymphs darted inside to tend to the child. ‘Why?’
‘Someone has arrived on Pegasus.’
‘Poseidon?’ Hera ran after her husband.
‘No, my queen,’ the guard replied as the three of them paced down the pillared corridor, ‘a mortal.’
Hera’s mouth tightened, her mind whirling with possibilities. It was forbidden on pain of death for mortals to approach Olympus unless escorted by one of the Twelve. Who in all the world would dare to break their sacred rule?
Hera’s blood was pounding by the time they emerged onto a cloud-swathed terrace, lined with rows of trimmed cypress trees, a gilded fountain pouring intricate swirls of water along rivets in the stone floor.
Surrounded by a ring of spear-wielding guards was Poseidon’s snow-white horse, Pegasus. The beast Hera had lost after her altercation with the Titan girl on the Caucasus Mountains. She moved closer, eager to see who it was that knelt upon the floor.
‘Step back,’ Zeus commanded the guards.
They obeyed, and Hera gasped.
The man raised his grizzled head, the effort of that alone sending tremors through his emaciated frame. He looked at them through eyes of sea, sunk into shadowy sockets. He was so changed, Hera almost didn’t recognize him. Almost.
Heracles’ gaze settled on Zeus, then his cracked lips parted to croak one word.
‘Father.’
50. A Fallen Star
They marched with the dawn.
The blasted notes of salpinges rang through the air, the horns chased by the thunder of drums. The earth quaked, the River Scamander trembling in its banks, as the bronze leviathan of the Greek army surged across the plain, each helmet a shining scale, each sword a spine. Dust hazed the air, the city of Troy rearing through the tawny cloud like the skull of a rival primordial beast.
Danae’s heart beat in her throat as she tightened her grip on her mare’s reins, a small pack secured around her waist. In her other hand gleamed Poseidon’s golden trident. Odysseus rode to her left, Hylas to her right. Behind them, amongst the Ithacan soldiers, the full force of the Children of Prometheus regiment followed on foot, their circular shields reflecting the rising sun. Ahead, in a vast patchwork of flags and metal, marched the rest of the allied Greek army: Achilles leading the charge with his Myrmidons in armour that shone brighter than starlight, followed by Nestor’s ten thousand men, shaven-headed Spartans, Arcadians with their great ash spears, plumed-helmed Argives,Phoceans, Laconians, Cretans, Aetolians, Epeans, Salamineans, Minyans and Boeotians, all led by Palamedes, Diomedes and the other generals riding horse-drawn chariots.
Mirroring the force on land, a score of hulking triremes cut across the iron-grey waters of the bay, sailing towards the Trojan harbour. Between them, four sleek penteconters sliced through the waves, their hulls black as eels. Gullssoared about their masts, their caws joining the piercing sound of the salpinges, hailing the destruction to come. In the lead was Agamemnon’s ship, its prow dominated by a gilded figurehead of Zeus, a golden thunderbolt stretched across his painted chest. The King of Men stood above the King of Heaven on the prow deck, a crimson-plumed helm upon his head, a matching cape billowing in the lashing wind.
Fighting to quell the roiling in her gut, Danae glanced back at the first row of soldiers. Telamon led a clutch of Children of Prometheus men, Atalanta another group, while the rest were scattered strategically through the Ithacan force. They had all received their orders the previous night. Once the gods were sighted in the sky, each group would focus on bringing them down into the fray with spears and arrows, then occupy them in battle while Danae delivered the killing blow.
Telamon caught Danae’s eye and winked. Her lips twitched, heart lifting for a beat. Then her eyes slid past him to the soldier in the silver breastplate. Atalanta marched with a brow as thunderous as the clouds threatening to devour the rising sun. Knives glinted at her thighs and ankles, a broadsword was sheathed at her waist, and her trusty bow and arrows were slung across her chest. Danae’s stomach tightened at the fresh dent at the heart of Atalanta’s armour. There had been no time to speak of what had passed between them before she fled the tent. By the time Danae had returned to retrieve her weapons after conversing with Achilles on the shore, Atalanta had gone to prepare for battle.
Danae stared, willing the other woman to catch her eye.
I’m sorry.
I want you.
Please don’t die.
‘Dione.’
Reluctantly, Danae turned back.
Odysseus surveyed her from between the eye slits of his bronze helm. ‘Once we cross the Scamander, you and Hylas will remain at the riverbank while our force marches on. You must wait for the gods to appear. Do not engage until they have all been brought to the ground and are embroiled in fighting our men. We cannot risk any of them discovering you are here while they retain an aerial advantage.’
‘Understood.’ Danae tilted her face to the sky, ever watchful for a glint of gold or the wings of a flying horse.
‘Look.’ Hylas pointed towards the bay.
The Greek warships had dropped anchor just beyond the cove shielding the Trojan harbour and its vessels. Their smaller penteconters slipped ahead between the triremes, rows of lights blinking into being on their decks.
Danae drew a sharp breath as a scatter of flaming arrows seared the air, igniting Trojan sails, decking and oars until the entire enemy fleet was blazing. Black smoke billowed across the plain, ash floating like blossom on the wind.
