Achilles was still drowning. She was still trapped in the well, kicking against the water, clawing at the slick walls, fighting to break the surface, while Kheiron watched clinically from above, dangling a rope just out of reach.
But then the memory faded and the world regained its solidity. Achilles was safe on Skyros, clutching at the frame of Deidamiaās bed. Damia was still tangled up in their shared blankets, her pale chest rising and falling in the soft rhythms of wine-soaked slumber. Last night must have been fun, but Achilles could not remember.
Tense, barely able to breathe, Achilles stalked out into the terrace garden. The western horizon was still a blur of dark blue seas and dark blue sky, so she ascended the stairway from the womenās terrace and climbed the palace watchtower that looked out toward the mainland. She had befriended the watchmen months ago. As far as they were concerned, she was a noble lady from Aiolia, a pleasant, quiet girl with a sad smile and a fondness for staring out to sea at odd hours. If they thought she was looking for anything in particular, it was probably the sails of some lover or friend, some kinsman she longed to see.
The sun inched up. A few familiar fishing boats were out, small craft with unmarked sails in the distinctive style of the Sporadesāboats from Skopelos and Skyros. Longships from the mainland would mean danger. Sails embroidered with the six-legged ant of Phthia would mean Kheiron and the Myrmidons had found her.
The wind shifted. āNo ships will come today,ā said Dolops, the older of the watchmen. āStormās coming off Euboia.ā
That was a relief. Though Achilles prided herself on despising superstition, she always watched the sea more closely after a flashback, hands clenched at her sides.
Dark clouds were indeed massing in the west, driven by a southwest wind. It was too far to discern the waters at the stormhead, but she could imagine them: swells of gray as deep as the eyes of the owls in her dreams, their violence still held in reserve, while the wind picked up and the clouds thickened and the first flash of lightning sheeted across the southwest sky.
āWhat do you see?ā asked Lykourgos, the younger watchman.
Achilles narrowed her eyes. Until he had spoken, she did not realize she was focusing on anything in particular, but now she made out a tiny speck of white just above the line of the horizon, the sail and mast of a distant longship. Her body tightened. And thenā
Brrrrmmmmm. Distant thunder shuddered through her body, and she braced herself against the stone turret, straining to see. The harder she stared, the clearer the speck became: a longship surging up the crest of a swollen gray wave, riding the peak, and sliding down into the trough. She could almost taste the cold salt spray on her skin, in her nostrils, could almost hear the rumble of the boatās drum, the grunts of the rowers, the strain of the sail. Fools or unlucky, to be out in a storm like this. They would never reach Skyros in time.
Or so she hoped.
āA longship,ā she said. āJust ahead of the storm.ā Her throat burned with sudden bile. She couldnāt make out the sail clearly, but a thousand fears and plans stormed through her brain regardless. If it was a Myrmidon ant sail, she would hide herself in the caves below the palace, or out in the forest, or in Skorpiaās farm village down the coast. She would stay there for weeks, until it was safe to come out.
I will never let them find me. I will never go back alive.
āTheyāll drown.ā Dolops seemed resigned. āDo you know what itās like to drown, Lady Red?ā
āUnfortunately, no.ā It was easier to lie. Better to hear him explain again how the body died in water than to tell him what it really felt like, the way her lungs had burned in air, then in water, then in what felt like subtle fire. āMaybe they wonāt drown.ā
But it would be easier for her if they did.
The longship had risen up out of the trough, mast taut on the wind, sail jerking like a living thing. The ship raced ahead of the black clouds, fleeing toward the shoals of Skyros.
It seemed to her that she could see even better now, her eyes impossibly keen. The tiny black speck was alive with struggling men, straining oars, flapping sail, while in her ear the morning breeze sighed and Dolops droned softly on about a watery death.
The longship leapt, battered by wind and sea, but kept together, knifing down the shallow slope of the next wave and immediately slicing up the next. Now Achilles could see the sail clearly: not the black ant of Phthia, but a seven-branched tree. Relief washed over her . . . and then terror for the sailors.
A man clung to the bow, shaking his fist in the air as if shouting defiance at the sea. Magnificent he was, slashing the air with his hand. The oars rose and fell on his signal, and the sails billowed, warped and twisted by sailors clinging to the ropes. Thunder echoed again.
āI see it now,ā said Lykourgos. āTheyāll never make it.ā The waves were rising nearer, and the sea was black, and the storm from the mainland was quickly closing in. āTheyāre probably praying to half the gods in the world right now.ā
āGods wonāt help them.ā Achilles gripped the stone turret ledge. She could not look away, but the idea that she would watch them die was too cruel. Still, she stood frozen, staring.
The man on the longship shouted to his crew and the boat turned as it picked up speed, cutting up the next wave at an angle, down the next one even sharper still, finding the safest heading. The sail tightened again and Achilles gasped. They knew exactly what they were doing. Lightning flashed, and the longship skimmed nearer, seconds ahead of the storm.
āI donāt believe it,ā Dolops exclaimed.
āIāve never seen such sailing,ā said Lykourgos. āTheyāll be here by noon.ā
āSo will the storm.ā But not the storm she was dreading. Her flashbacks were just memories, not prophecies. Kheiron was not coming. She was still safe.
A little before noon, Achilles went down to the womenās quarters and asked Damia to come down with her to the docks and to lend her an umbrella.
Damiaās umbrella was enormous, set up on a stand in the middle of her bedchamber, covering her makeup bench in a grand wood-and-hide canopy hung with dangling charms of bronze and silver, magical talismans from Assur, and a long cedar handle carved in Nineveh with scenes of tranquility to appease the Lord of Thunder. The umbrella was a gift from the Great King of Assur to Damiaās father, who had given it in turn to his firstborn daughter.
āWhy do you want to take my Assyrian royal umbrella to the docks in the middle of a downpour?ā Damia was still in bed, hair tousled, knotted up in her blankets. āI donāt feel well.ā
āA ship came in ahead of the storm. Iāve never seen such sailing. I want to meet these madmen.ā
Damia looked grave. āThe Earthshaker is not to be trifled with. And shouldnāt you be avoiding outsiders?ā But she writhed free of the blankets and stood out on her tiptoes, stretching toward the ceiling. A slow yawn traveled up from her belly to her fingertips. Something like tenderness caught in Achillesās throat, and her eyes breathed in Deidamiaās lines, her slim curvature, the particular way her belly rose and fell with each breath, the lofty carriage of her neck and headā
She had never thought that Damia would love her back. She had never thought any woman she loved could love her back, not in the same way she loved them. She swallowed, choking down a sudden irrational impulse to cry or fling her arms around Damiaās neck.
āI see Iāve used up my questions for the day.ā Damia turned to frown down at Achilles. āThe things I do for you. But if I donāt like your reckless mystery sailors, Iāll fling them back to the sea.ā
The first droplets were falling from a still-clear sky as they rushed down the Mese, the broad paved road that descended through the terraces of Skyros. The tiny paving stones were smooth under Achillesās feet, and Damiaās sandals flapped a step behind her. Past the weaving hall they ran, and the spinners called out greetings; they ran past the smokehouses and the bakeries, and the women waved; they ran past the tannersā and carpentersā halls, where the men called, āDamia! Red! Not so fast in the rain!ā Finally they reached the docks.
At the end of the longest pier, the island-rigged longship rolled with the waves, tied in place now, sails furled, safe from the gathering storm. The magnificent man who had stood at the prow now stood on the dock, in a hooded cloak of waxed wool. He was as splendid as she thought heād be: full-armed and deep-chested as only a skilled sailor was, his elegant face stern and composed, his dark eyes difficult to read. He looked the girls over, then bowed. āGreetings. I am Diomedes of Argos, and in a momentāwhen he finishes tying the sailsāyou will meet Odysseus of Ithaka. We request the hospitality of King Lykomedes in the name of the Silent One and the Queen of Kings.ā
āWe welcome you in the name of Athena and Hera.ā Damia opened the umbrella just as the rain began to come down in earnest. She pushed the pole into Achillesās hands, and Achilles held it, grateful that Damia and her umbrella would absorb this manās attention and allow her a chance to study him. āI grant hospitality in my fatherās place. I am Deidamia, and this is Pyrrha. Shelter with us under this awning.ā
Diomedes joined them under the umbrella. A moment later, another man sprang down from the ship, less elegant than Diomedes, with a hairy chest, a rough beard, a mop of curly hair, and bright darting eyes. Odysseus of Ithaka stepped under the umbrella uninvited, pushing his waterlogged curls away from his forehead. āWhat a wonderful idea. A portable roof! From the Hittites?ā
āFrom the Assyrians,ā Damia said placidly. She pointed up the Mese toward the palace. āCome. In the name of the gods we will wash your feet and welcome you. Even on Skyros we know the name of Diomedes of Argos, hero of Thebai.ā
āBut not the name of Odysseus,ā said Odysseus with a grin. āOnly the worst people know my name.ā When Damia offered Diomedes her hand to guide him up the Mese, Odysseus drew closer to Achilles, marveling at the little hinges that held the umbrella struts in place. āSuch tiny bronze fittings!ā Before they had passed the Fishermanās Gate, Odysseus offered to carry the umbrella, for surely, he said, she too w...
