Elissa and Tisamenos embraced, and Silvius stood at the side, angry at himself, full of confusion.

When they released each other, he nodded his thanks, suppressing his emotions. ‘Now let’s find somewhere sheltered to sleep.’

A stone fell to the ground, as if it had been knocked over. A snarl, like a dog. Silvius whipped round, sword already out of his scabbard.

A red glow appeared, lighting up the stones with scarlet, the same kind of scarlet that shone in the eyes of those possessed by the Enemy, that had stained the sea crimson, that had dispersed into the air above Lavinium.

‘Elissa!’ called Silvius. ‘The Arrow! Tisamenos, ready the sack!’

From behind a large boulder appeared three men, each bearing torches, and a large dog, heavy and slinking.

‘Attack!’

Silvius ran forwards, sword raised.

But a deep voice simply laughed, and said, ‘Three young ones in the ruins of Troy? We’ve seen no ship land here for years. You are no traders from Tyre.’

Stopping in surprise, his sandaled feet skidding, Silvius looked more carefully at the men. Their leader, who had spoken, was old, with long grey hair bound by white priestly bands, and an amused look on his deeply lined, long face. The other two, who appeared equally old, wore red bands that fluttered in the breeze. Though frail, they moved with purpose. The dog bounded straight up to Elissa and put his paws on her shoulders; she pushed it off, smiling, and it lay at her feet, presenting its pink belly to be rubbed. Tisamenos kept his hand in the lip of the sack.

‘Who are you?’ Silvius demanded, weapon still poised.

‘Young man,’ said the leader, ‘I might well ask the same question of you.’ He gave his torch to one of his companions. ‘Except that I do not need to.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tisamenos approached carefully.

‘The birds told us.’ The man began busying himself with something he drew out of a casket, a powder that he threw into the air, mumbling beneath his breath. The other two men imitated the actions and sounds he was making. The dog came to the leader’s side, tongue hanging out.

‘The birds told you in the auguries,’ said Elissa.

‘You are right. They tell us the future in their flight. I am Chryses, priest of Apollo. And we know all about you. I know what you are carrying in that quiver.’ Chryses cut over their exclamations. ‘And we can show you what you are looking for.’

‘How do we know this isn’t a trap?’ Silvius asked.

The priest smiled, and pressed his gnarled, liver-spotted hands together. ‘You can’t, of course. We could be anyone. But do you have any other choice?’