He stumbled away, blearily, to relieve his bladder behind an outcrop, and then went to drink from the stream.

A thin plume of black smoke was rising from the citadel of Mykenai. The whole kinghouse might have been destroyed. The cruel head of the Last Gorgon rubbed against his skin through the sacking, and he felt a sudden revulsion. What had he won it for?

A cough made him turn round. Silvius was behind him, black hair lank.

‘I give you thanks,’ said the half-Trojan, in that formal way he had; so stiff and yet so unpractised, like a rustic trying to be polite. ‘You didn’t have to help us.’

‘I should be there.’ Tisamenos indicated the citadel.

‘I left my city too,’ said Silvius. ‘I left my father, my mother, my little brother. But this mission is from Apollo himself.’

‘If Mykenai is weak, the other cities will hear of it. One of them is probably already mustering an army – Argos most likely. It was always a better positioned city.’

Silvius took hold of Tisamenos’s arm. ‘Python’s danger is real, and more terrible than any army from Argos. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the people Python controls. They’re terrifying – unstoppable. They might even have destroyed my own city.’

‘We must go to Troy to find the Bow.’ Elissa joined them, the quiver on her back. ‘My people are near there. It is all meant to happen. An Achaean, a Trojan, a Carthaginian – lion, wolf, dolphin. It makes sense, doesn’t it? We don’t know what we have to do yet, but it’s us three who have to do it.’

‘The children of enemies, seeking to make a greater peace …’ Silvius paused.

Trembling, the son of Orestes gazed across at the burning citadel. They were right: Apollo’s mission was a greater one. That had been what his actions were for. The cleansing of his house so that he could join in this deed for the god.

Clenching his fists, Tisamenos turned to face them, and he was matter of fact once more. ‘And how in the name of the Skyfather do we get there? Over land is thousands of miles.’

‘If only we could fly,’ Elissa said, thoughtfully, watching the buzzard. ‘How did Hero move us with those feathers?’

‘Spells. Some terrible dark spell. I don’t trust that kind of thing.’ Tisamenos frowned.

There was a rumbling sound, like rocks falling, and he placed his mutilated hand with its stone stump on the ground. His face wrinkled in concentration as he struggled to understand the harsh speech of the rocks. They were trying to warn him of something, some gathering darkness.

His anger was too loud; he could not make out what they were saying. There was only the hissing and clattering of thousands of harsh tongues.

Watch out, one said. Watch out. From the Nine Rivers. Darkness. World. Watch out. Under.

It was too late.