Telamon had been feeling much better since he’d resolved to seize the dagger from his grandfather. The terror of the Angry Ones had faded, and not even the thought of his father’s ghost could trouble him now.

True, not all was going to plan, for his men had failed to catch Hylas. But victory comes to he who dares, he told himself as he cantered up the track towards Lapithos. Once I have the dagger, no Outsider shall stand in my way.

Earlier, he’d left Ilarkos in command of his men, with orders to lead them through the pass and down on to the plains, where they would make contact with Pharax and the main force.

Ilarkos had been alarmed. ‘But my lord, what will I tell the lord Pharax if he asks where you are?’

‘You won’t need to tell him anything, by then I’ll have caught up with you, or seen him myself.’ With that, Telamon had slapped the reins on his horse’s neck and started for the stronghold where he’d grown up.

As the Sun rose higher, he saw charcoal stormclouds massing in the east, and for a moment, the thought of Pharax cast a shadow over his spirit. Telamon remembered the night he’d returned from Egypt, when his uncle had interrogated him in the great hall at Mycenae. Not a muscle had moved in Pharax’s gaunt countenance as Telamon had told of Alekto’s dreadful death. And afterwards, Pharax hadn’t mentioned her once, he’d merely demanded to know why Telamon had disobeyed his orders by becoming involved in a skirmish on the Great River. Pharax didn’t care that his own sister had been eaten by crocodiles – but if his orders were flouted, he would not forgive.

Well, and what of that? thought Telamon rebelliously. Only the bravest of men would dare disobey Pharax – and I am that man. When I’ve seized the dagger from Koronos, then Pharax will have to obey me.

He saw himself driving his chariot at the head of his warriors, brandishing the dagger aloft and sending the last of the rebels fleeing in panic. Already he could feel its weight in his hand, its strength coursing through him. He saw its strong clean lines and the lethal sweep of its blade; the quartered circle on its hilt that signified a chariot wheel to crush his enemies.

The first-ever chieftain of the House of Koronos, the warrior who’d built his stronghold at Lapithos, had forged the dagger from the helmet of his slaughtered enemy, and had quenched its burning bronze with blood from his own battle-wounds. With ancestors like that, was it any wonder that the gods had decreed that Telamon should rule?

At last Lapithos rose into sight, and his heart swelled with pride. It sat with its back against the mountain, dominating all it surveyed. Crows wheeled and cawed above its dark-red walls, and on the watchtowers that squatted at each corner, the black crests of the guards’ helmets streamed in the wind.

Reining in his horse, Telamon turned and stared down over the rich plains of Lykonia, with their olive groves and barley fields stretching all the way to the mountains of the east. Below and much nearer, he saw the ant-like rebels clustered on their ridge. There were more of them than he’d expected; but not enough to withstand the great red dust cloud on the plain that was Pharax’s forces. It was still some distance away, but moving inexorably closer.

With a thrill of pride, Telamon pictured the glory he would win in battle. We will crush them to the last man, he thought. We will enslave their women and children. That rabble down there will be no match for the House of Koronos.

The sentries on the walls had seen him, and the great bronze-studded gates creaked open to let him in. Clattering into the courtyard, he leapt off his horse and flung the reins to a slave.

The captain of the guard hurried towards him, bowing. From the man’s babbled greeting, Telamon grasped that the guards were beginning to lose their nerve, after watching the rebels massing on the ridge.

‘More of ’em than we thought, my lord,’ the captain said apprehensively. ‘And the omens are bad –’

‘What omens,’ growled Telamon, snatching a wine cup from a slave girl and draining it.

‘Starlings, my lord, a great cloud of ’em, never seen so many! Flew right over us, darkened the sky. They even scared the crows off for a time. And that’s not all, my lord, there are rumours –’

‘What rumours?’ snapped Telamon. ‘Go on man, spit it out!’

‘My lord, they say …’ He gulped. ‘They say that the Lion of Mycenae has returned.’

Silence in the courtyard: every man was watching to see how Telamon took that. He noticed that most of them were very young, some still without beards. It appeared that Pharax had taken the experienced warriors, and left Koronos guarded by boys.

This made Telamon feel manly and in control. ‘The “Lion of Mycenae”,’ he said in a scornful voice that rang across the courtyard, ‘is merely a name which cowardly peasants once gave to a man called Akastos, whom my grandfather killed a long time ago, when he seized control of Mycenae. Such tales are for women, not warriors.’ His glance raked the guards, who hung their heads in shame. ‘If I hear any more gossip like that, I’ll have you all flogged!’

Flinging down the wine cup, he turned to the captain. ‘You’ve wasted enough of my time,’ he barked. ‘Take me to High Chieftain Koronos, I must speak with him at once!’

It still gave Telamon a shock to enter the great hall of Lapithos, and find Koronos there instead of Thestor, his father.

Koronos sat at the far end, on a bench behind a richly carved table of gilded wood. He was alone, except for the guards at the doorway and a slave who was mixing wine with honey and crumbled cheese in a great silver bowl. The slave looked frightened. So did the guards. Everyone was frightened of Koronos. Fear surrounded him like a mist.

Telamon strode past the great central hearth where the fire had been burning for generations. He passed the throne of green marble against the west wall: the throne that had been Thestor’s. His heart skipped a beat. For an instant, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his father’s ghost, watching him with grim disapproval.

Very deliberately, Telamon turned his head and stared at the throne. It was empty, of course. Lies, lies, he told himself, with a surge of hatred at Hylas for planting fears in his mind and making him see things that weren’t there. Then all that was forgotten, and he was striding towards the High Chieftain.

‘Koronos,’ he said brusquely, dropping to one knee and putting his hand to his heart.

His grandfather regarded him in silence.

As always, Koronos wore the purple tunic and white goatskin mantle of the High Chieftain of Mycenae, secured at the shoulder by a gold cloak pin the size of a clenched fist. A spiked circlet of hammered gold bound his temples, and around his waist was the great golden belt of the House of Koronos, with its clasp in the form of four axes radiating like a jagged star. Age had silvered the High Chieftain’s beard and scraped the hair from his skull, but instead of draining him of strength, it had turned him to granite.

Telamon had always been terrified of him – but now, as he rose to his feet, he noticed the iron ring on his grandfather’s thumb. There had been a time when Koronos had only worn that ring for important sacrifices, but these days, he was never without it. Did this mean that even Koronos was afraid of the Angry Ones?

Telamon found this oddly heartening. His grandfather was not invincible, after all.

‘Why are you not with your men,’ said the High Chieftain in the voice that made seasoned warriors turn pale.

Telamon took a deep breath. Courage, he told himself. ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said harshly. ‘Soon the battle will begin and I must be there.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve come for the dagger. I need it to lead our men to victory.’

Silence in the hall. The old man licked his lipless mouth with a slow, pale tongue. ‘You?’ he said drily.

Telamon caught a lethal glint in the hooded eyes. He clenched his jaw. ‘The men need to see it, Koronos. It’s doing no good hidden away up here.’

With appalling deliberation, Koronos rose to his full height. ‘When I’m dead, you can fight Pharax for the dagger. While I live, boy, you will obey me.’

Telamon flinched. Then he lifted his chin. ‘Listen to me!’ he spat. ‘I am young, Koronos – and you are old! Soon, you will die.’

The slave gasped and fled the hall in terror of his master’s wrath. But Koronos’ features never moved.

‘You will give me the dagger,’ said Telamon, meeting his grandfather’s stare.

A harsh bark of laughter rang through the hall, making Telamon step back. Over his shoulder, he saw the guards at the doorway exchange startled glances: like him, they’d never heard the High Chieftain laugh.

‘I sent it to Pharax days ago,’ Koronos replied. ‘I want a man to take it into battle – not a boy.’

Telamon felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Pharax has the dagger, he thought in disbelief. You’ve come all this way for nothing.

Numbly, he watched his grandfather resume his seat and place one granite fist on the table. ‘Your father was weak,’ Koronos said coldly. ‘He tried to keep himself and his son apart from his clan: he had no stomach to rule. You are weak too. Despite your bluster, you are afraid. Now get out of my sight. And try not to disgrace yourself on the battlefield.’

There was a roaring in Telamon’s ears. A red mist came down over his eyes. He pictured himself thrusting his sword through his grandfather’s mottled throat … blood bubbling and frothing from that lipless mouth …

With an immense effort of will, he turned on his heel and staggered down the hall, with Koronos’ stony laughter ringing in his ears.