Chapter One

The Cave of Wings

The twelve men in ankle-length cloaks of black wool stood silently at the cave mouth. They did not speak or move. The early autumn wind was unnaturally chilly, but they did not blow warm air on cold hands. Moonlight shimmered on their bronze breastplates and white-crested helmets, on their embossed wrist guards and greaves, and on the hilts of the short swords scabbarded at their waists. Yet despite the presence of cold metal against their bodies they did not shiver.

The night grew colder, and it began to rain as midnight approached. Hail fell and clattered against their armor, and still they did not move.

Then there came another warrior, tall and stooping, his cloak flapping in the fierce wind. He, too, was armored, though his cuirass was inlaid with gold and silver, as were the helmet and greaves he wore.

“Is he inside?” he asked, his voice deep.

“Yes, my king,” answered one of the men, tall and broad- shouldered, with deep-set gray eyes. “He will summon us when the gods speak.”

“Then we wait,” replied Agamemnon.

The rain eased, and the king’s dark eyes scanned his Followers. Then he looked into the Cave of Wings. Deep within he could see firelight flickering on the craggy walls and even from there smell the acrid and intoxicating fumes from the prophecy flames. As he watched, the fire dimmed.

Unused to waiting, he felt his anger rise but masked it. Even a king was expected to be humble in the presence of the gods.

Every four years the king of Mykene and twelve of his most trusted Followers were e