In contrast, Dion’s father sat near the cooking hearth with his old comrades, paying the women little attention as he laughed and waved his cup with stabbing motions, evidently reliving some past battle. He made an overly ambitious swipe and nearly fell from his recliner, as inebriated as Nikolas. A servant scurried to help him up while the scarred soldiers with him roared and stamped their feet on the floor.

Peithon formed another group, in company with two of the city’s richly dressed merchants and a burly old man with an iron necklace who oversaw the quarries and mines. They were deep in discussion, and the plump first adviser to the king was sober-faced as he prodded his palm with the tip of a thick finger.

‘Tell my wife to come over,’ Nikolas suddenly barked. ‘I want to talk to my son again.’

‘Leave them be,’ Dion said, smiling as he sipped from his cup. ‘He’s as prepared as he’ll ever be.’

‘He soon won’t be Luni anymore,’ Nikolas said. ‘He’ll be given a man’s name. How will he fare when they put a real sword in his hands? Will the other boys consent to his leadership?’

A servant bent down to refill Dion’s cup. ‘There’s only so much you can do, brother. His fate is in Balal’s hands.’

Nikolas turned a bleary gaze on his younger sibling. ‘I sacrificed this morning and prayed at the temple.’

‘Then you have done all you can.’

‘Listen, Dion. When I am king I will help you build your navy.’

Dion smiled. ‘You’re drunk,’ he said again.

‘Truly,’ Nikolas insisted. ‘Peithon agrees that we need one. You have a place here, and a part to play. I will give you—’

‘Hush!’ someone called out. ‘The magus is here!’

Gradually all conversation came to a halt, and the musicians in the corner ceased playing. Those standing near the stairs to the ground level parted.

A withered old man in a black robe came into view.

As the people around him drew back in sudden awe, he walked with slow footsteps taken laboriously, one after the other. All eyes were on him but his head was down and the cowl of his robe was over his head, so that only his sharp nose could be seen. His hands were clasped together, the white skin contrasting with the long black sleeves.

His breath rasped as he walked and shuffled. Finally, he came to stand in the cleared area in the center of the room and lifted his head. He pulled back the hood of his robe.

The magus wore a heavy black chain made of thick rings around his neck from which hung an iron medallion, the size of a dinner plate, displaying an embossed flame in a circle. Wisps of white hair crowned his wrinkled scalp and when he turned to cast his eyes over the assembled gathering his stare was intent.