As he headed deeper into the marketplace the Temple of Aeris loomed ahead, each spaced column as wide as the stoutest tree. He watched citizens come and go with regularity, making offerings for the health of loved ones. He then returned his attention to the agora as a priestess of Edra slinked past, her gauzy chiton revealing tantalizing female flesh and her eyes lined with kohl. She gave Dion an appraising look, but he simply smiled and nodded and she turned away, looking for customers elsewhere.

Although the Temple of Helios was the farthest from the agora, it was as busy as always. Dion fingered the silver medallion with a trident in a circle that he wore on a chain around his neck. The shrine dedicated to his personal deity, Silex, the god of fortune and the sea, was down in the lower city; he doubted he would have time to visit.

As he wondered how he would find the first consul, his gaze traveled over the several hills dotting the city’s upper level, crowned by palatial residences, the homes of the wealthy. He knew one of the villas was the home of Aristocles, but he didn’t know which.

The market ended halfway into the agora, and now on his right there were steps leading upwards to the library and the lyceum. He had once visited the library and was awed by the thousands upon thousands of clay tablets, astonished that with nothing more than the simple act of reading he could find out the price of wheat on the day he was born.

He paused and rubbed his chin as he looked at the lyceum and the bronze statue of the god of justice just outside. Shaking his head, he continued walking. His father the king would be angry enough that he had visited Phalesia, let alone announced himself to the consuls.

Looking around, scanning the hilltop villas and the merchants’ homes below, he could see occasional signs of the recent tremor. It had evidently struck Phalesia much harder than Xanthos, but already men were repairing the buildings. The sight reminded him of his task. He knew that clearing the narrows would be worth risking his father’s ire.

Then Dion saw someone he knew. A stocky man in leather armor with a weathered face of crags and wrinkles was walking toward the market. He had an athletic build, square jaw, and dark, somber eyes.

‘Captain,’ Dion said warmly.

Amos frowned for a moment, then smiled as recognition lit up his visage. ‘Dion of Xanthos.’

‘It’s good to see you, Captain.’

‘I’m not with my men. You can call me Amos. What brings you here?’

‘The tremor. A piece of cliff broke off and now blocks the narrows. Our two nations are cut off from trade.’

Amos’s eyebrows registered surprise. ‘I was not aware. A dark night, that was. How fares Xanthos?’

‘It appears the quake struck Phalesia harder.’