The magus stopped. He was standing outside the lump of iron.

‘The gods have chosen iron,’ the magus said, his thin lips creasing in a smile.

Nikolas was unable to hide a sigh of relief. Glancing across the room, Dion saw that the king was now standing, fists clenched at his sides, but he was beaming.

Yet the ceremony wasn’t over. There was one final part for the child to play.

‘I name you Lukas,’ the magus said. His parents would have supplied the name, but it was the first time anyone else in the room had heard it.

‘Lukas,’ Dion mouthed. His nephew. He decided he liked the name.

‘Come, Lukas,’ the magus said, still standing near the lump of iron. ‘Come to claim iron.’

The smile fell from Nikolas’s face and he tensed once more. But his son knew what to do, and he walked to the magus, knelt at the corner of the diamond, and picked up the lump of iron.

Nikolas whooped as a resounding cheer filled the room. Helena wiped her eyes as she and Thea embraced. King Markos shook hands with the men around him.

‘Lukas is a fitting name. The gods chose rightly,’ Dion said as he turned and clapped his brother on the back.

‘Thank you, brother.’ Nikolas pulled him into an embrace. Dion felt prickly hair on his face as his older brother planted a kiss on his cheek.

‘Go.’ Dion laughed, pushing him away. ‘Go to your wife and son.’

Nikolas lurched across the room to join Helena, who was impatiently waving a hand for him to come over. She had a necklace of tiny iron rings in her hands and together she and Nikolas fastened the chain around Lukas’s neck; soon a circular amulet imprinted with the bull of Balal was proudly displayed for all to see.

As the parents united around the boy, Dion smiled. But then he felt a gaze on him and saw the magus’s dark eyes looking at him from the very center of the hall. Their eyes met before the old man nodded.

Dion’s smile faded as he reflected on his own naming ceremony.

He was now old enough to know that the magi and his family would have been discussing him behind closed doors. Even at the tender age of seven it was already clear that Dion wasn’t a natural warrior like Nikolas. He’d somehow managed to cut himself on the dull edge of a child’s sword and he’d always been afraid of large groups of hoplites, with their sharp spears ready to kill and steel helmets hiding their faces. He did have skills: he was good with horses and liked to ride; he was clever with numbers and could add, subtract, and multiply better than his much older brother.