These people knew who’d killed his mother, Tisamenos reminded himself. He thought furiously. He didn’t doubt that they would cut his tongue out and think no more of it than of wringing a goose’s neck. The monkey chattered, and leapt onto his shoulder. Startled, he brushed it off, and it jumped away, cackling.

What could he say? He heard someone whisper, ‘He’s soft. Born in softness. Let him die in hardness.’

He knew that about himself. He knew his house, his family, were ancient, rotting. His father, half-asleep on the throne, clinging to the past. And his mother, dead, out of reach. He saw Hermione in his mind, turning to him, holding out her hand. ‘Know things and know the names of them …’ she whispered. He felt the strength of the lion course through him.

He knew what to say.

‘I am Tisamenos.’ The hand pushed him back down, but he pressed against it. ‘I am Tisamenos.’ He stood up and looked right at the figure in the bird mask. ‘I am Tisamenos, unworthy son of Hermione. And I have come to lay her ghost to rest.’ A murmur ran around the room, and Tisamenos was not sure whether it was approving or not.

The figure called, ‘Silence!’ Then it removed its bird mask, and there, stern, her dark eyes flashing, was Hero.

‘Good. Now you will learn. Are the watchers in place?’

Somebody called assent from the back.

‘Good. Repeat. By the Mother of the Gods we swear. I will not repeat what I hear. If I do, may I be struck down, my tongue cut out, my hands cut off, my nose slit.’

Tisamenos repeated the words, the rest of the group’s voices resounding around him.

‘So will you tell me?’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘Will you tell me who killed my mother?’

‘He must show his loyalty first,’ said the thug.

Hero paused, and looked thoughtful. ‘It is true,’ she said. ‘All here have sworn to the band of Swallows.’

‘But he cannot,’ said the amber-skinned man. ‘He is one of them. One of the soft ones.’

‘What should I do?’ said Tisamenos. ‘I will do anything.’

‘Bring us the head of the Last Gorgon,’ said the thug, suddenly, his deep voice full of mockery. ‘And then you will know.’ There were calls of derision and approval from the crowd.

‘You must do it,’ said Hero. ‘We have all done such things. I brought the teeth of a Hydra.’ She went to a box, plain and wooden, and opened it. Inside were two pointed canines, as long as a grown man’s arm. ‘Slick with poison,’ she said, and then held out her arm. Along it was a long, vivid scar. ‘And this is what even the corpse of a monster can do to you.’

Staring at the teeth, Tisamenos said, ‘But – but that’s impossible. The Last Gorgon is a story, a legend – she’s not real!’