Erigone’s screams sluiced through the stone corridors of Mykenai’s kinghouse. It was the morning after Tisamenos had seen the swallow in the entrance hall, and dawn was spearing through the light wells, showing up the cracks in the walls and the frayed ends of the tapestries. A couple of hounds were sniffing at something; they glanced balefully at Tisamenos as he went by, aiming for the women’s quarters, in search of Hero.

‘… up at this time of day, at my age …’ A voice came from behind him. It was his old nurse, Agatha, stomping past him bearing a gold-rimmed jug of hot water, a pile of the softest fragrant linen towels stuffed under her arm. The scent of sweet herbs wafted from the jug.

He grabbed her by her rather thick elbow. ‘What’s going on?’

‘She’s giving birth,’ panted Agatha, her weak eyes blinking, face blowsy and red. ‘She’ll have the whole kinghouse down with that wailing. Sounds like a Fury!’ For a moment her ancient, creased face seemed to lighten.

‘Agatha,’ said Tisamenos. ‘What do you think about Hero?’

‘Hero? That flighty creature? Dancing about in the woods, spouting nonsense? Don’t listen to her …’ Her face settled into its customary tightness, the mouth a thin line and the eyes hooded with suspicion, and she was off again, making the sign against evil, disappearing into the gloom ahead of him, spilling water as she went.

Tisamenos continued in her wake. That’s what Hero had said. ‘Don’t listen to me, they’ll say.’ If Agatha thought Hero wasn’t worth listening to, then maybe Agatha was wrong.

Sometimes a servant would rush past him, carrying wood or a pail of water. A man bearing the staff of Asclepios, the god of healing, with its carved coiled serpent, was hurried along the corridors by the steward. Tisamenos, keeping to the shadows, made sure he was not noticed.

When he reached the women’s quarters, down a few hundred paces of dank stone passages, he found the ancient wooden doors firmly closed. A guard was set in front, his bronze spear upright. Tisamenos went to push past him, but the spear came down in front of him, barring his way.

‘Not even the son of Orestes is allowed in the women’s quarters.’ The guard, a thickset, beetle-browed oaf, was unsmiling.

‘I used to come to see my mother,’ said Tisamenos.

‘When you were a whelp. You’re too old now. Clear off.’ The guard made a shooing motion with his hand, which riled Tisamenos.

‘Take a message through,’ he said, puffing up his chest. ‘I am the king’s son!’

‘I said, clear off!’