‘If you kill me, the world will be in danger,’ said Silvius. He knew that he could not lie to this man. There was something about him, something haughty and damaged and strange and wild.

The chain around his neck was heavy, the Arrowhead throbbing with energy.

‘You speak oddly, child,’ said Orestes. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Our king was Priam,’ continued Silvius. ‘Of Troy.’

The names hung in the air, javelins about to hit their mark. Electra turned sharply to study him, and Orestes straightened, eyes narrowing.

‘You were all defeated,’ said Orestes. ‘My father Agamemnon razed your city to the ground.’

‘A new Troy rises again in the West,’ said Silvius. ‘In Italia, where Aeneas has built the city of Lavinium.’

Orestes gripped his sword handle. All trace of the drunk had gone, and in his place was a fierce soldier.

‘No.’ Silvius removed the chain from his neck, and held up the casket so that they could see it. ‘I am not your enemy. My father’s battles are not mine. In here is the Arrowhead of Apollo.’

A groan escaped Orestes’s lips. He placed his head in his hands. ‘Then it is true, the message from Italia. I thought that I would rest, now …’ He looked up. His eyes were hollow.

‘Give it to me, child.’

Electra, silent, burned into him with her gaze.

‘I can’t,’ answered Silvius. He steeled himself. He was now a messenger of Apollo – he had to tell the truth. ‘Apollo is offended by some lies that have been told. Some lies that affect you directly. And until those lies are revealed, he will not allow it.’

‘You are brave, child, to face the lion in his den,’ said Orestes. Was this the lion of the prophecy, then? He didn’t look very lion-like to Silvius.

Silvius had seen the stone lions above the gate of the city. And while Orestes might have his lion, the people of Aeneas had the wolf.

‘Why shouldn’t I run you through right now, and seize the Arrowhead?’ Orestes hobbled towards Silvius, and suddenly drew the edge of his sword along the boy’s cheekbone. Cool and sharp, Silvius felt its bite. He quashed down a shudder.

‘I am the son of the wolf,’ said Silvius, voice strong as the bronze grazed his throat. ‘You will not take it from me. When the truth is known, we will reunite Arrowhead and Shaft.’

The eyes of Orestes, haunted and ravaged with sorrow, rested on Silvius’s. The weight that they carried was like a physical force.

‘You are the age of my Tisamenos,’ said the king, softly. Electra, eyes bright, merely glared at him.

‘Meet me at the tombs, when the night is still and the watchman calls the fourth watch.’

Orestes withdrew the sword. ‘Well then, son of the wolf. The King of Mykenai will see what you have to show.’