Now came the part of the plan that Silvius liked least. There was a guard set on the stables, and they would have to knock him out, and maybe even the stable boys too, if they were there. A large wicker gate was set into the city wall, wide enough for two horses to pass through, and through it could be seen the light of an oil lamp, and a man singing to himself.

Silvius peered through the crack, and saw a young man sitting on a stool with his back to them, carving a piece of wood to pass the time. He’d taken his armour off, and was singing an old song about wood spirits. Silvius’s heart sank. He knew this young man. He was the son of a Trojan warrior and a Latin woman, like he was himself, and not much older.

He looked back over his shoulder at Elissa, and beckoned to her, pushed open the wicker gate and stepped inside, Elissa just behind him. The smell of fresh hay and the comforting rawness of horse sweat engulfed them. A chestnut mare in the stall right next to the door noticed his presence, and swished her tail in greeting. Foolishly, he put his finger to his lips, before recalling why he was there. The guard stopped singing, and placed his carving down upon the floor, looking from side to side as if he had forgotten what he was about to do, then put both hands on his thighs, about to stand up.

The guard looked absurdly unprotected from behind. A metallic taste came into Silvius’s mouth, and without stopping to think any more about it, he picked up an empty sack from the floor, crept up behind the guard and stuffed it over his head. The guard cried out, but Silvius kicked him over, drew his sword and pressed it to the man’s exposed belly.

‘Make a sound,’ said Silvius, ‘and you’ll feel it.’ Then, a sick taste in his throat, he knocked hard into the guard’s head, sending him sideways, prone in the straw.

Elissa was watching him, shocked.

Silvius checked the guard, removing the sack. He was out, clean, his eyes closed, lids fluttering. Then, feeling suddenly disgusted with himself, Silvius looked about for Aeneas’s horse, Blaze.

The huge, glossy stallion was stabled by himself. He snorted and stamped his foot. As Silvius went up to him, he was awed. Aeneas’s pride stood high, over sixteen hands. Silvius reached out and tried to catch the horse’s head, but it shied away.

‘Not like that.’ Elissa was beside him.

Whispering a few gentle words, Elissa stroked the stallion’s nose, feeding him some roots that were in a bag tied to the stall. Then, as if it were nothing, she took a bridle and gently placed it on the horse, with the reins attached to it, and opened the stall, leading him out.