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It was a new life, a more luxurious one than Nikko ever guessed existed. No chasing goats, or picking up rocks from the fields, or gathering manure to feed the barley. No fleas or flies or dirt. Even their chamber pots were gold rimmed, painted with lions or patterns of red and gold, and covered with cloth to keep in the smell till the palace servants took them away.

Other servants came twice a day bearing whatever food was best from the palace kitchens. Two servants sat outside the door of the big common chamber, in case any of the occupants wanted anything. Jewels for their costumes, fresh furs, even herbs for Dora’s pots—anything was theirs for the asking.

There was no need to hide within the rooms now.

Thetis was accompanied at all times by Dora, or one of the servants, as was proper for a young girl. (If she still sneaked out alone she had the skill not to be noticed.) But Nikko was allowed out by himself. For the first time he was able to explore the whole of Mycenae, the alleys and the big walled roads, lined with lords’ houses, and the smaller courtyards for servants’ rooms like the ones they’d shared with Orkestres and Dora.

Their big terrace looked down on most of the Mycenaean plain, lusher by far than the mountain lands he’d known, and on clear days the deep blue rim of the sea in the far distance. But now he was allowed to walk along the city walls too, so he could see out to the mountains, and up to the steep cliffs behind the city. Even more fascinating were the buildings outside the walls, the ones he’d missed in the shadows and tiredness of their arrival.

For the city of Mycenae was basically a fort—a giant stone edifice that could hold back attackers with its steep walls and narrow Lion Gate. There was room for hundreds inside the town, but most of the economic life was outside.

Nikko could sit on the city walls, sucking the juice from a pomegranate and spitting the seeds down onto the roof of the tanneries, where everything from goat hides to soft lynx pelts were scraped and dried and softened. Further along were the bronze works, with glowing forges and barrels of cold water that spat and fizzled as the smiths dipped the white hot metal of the knives and swords. But the biggest sheds belonged to Mycenae’s largest industries—perfumed oils and woollen cloth.

Listening to the gossip of the palace, Nikko now realised that the food to feed Mycenae was only a small part of the tributes that flowed to the King. More important was the wool to be carded, spun, dyed and then woven into the thin woollen cloth for which Mycenae was famous.

It was this fine woollen cloth that Mycenae could sell to all the nations around the Circle Sea, and even beyond
the Sea Gales, north to the far-off Hyperboreans. There they traded cloth for the tin needed to mix with copper to make bronze, and, in Egypt, for gold and luxuries like dates and sesame, or even in eastern countries for the silk that had to travel three years on horseback until it came to Mycenae.

Wool and linen cloth meant Mycenae was rich—rich enough to make weapons for its soldiers, rich enough to feed an army, so that no lesser king would ever defy its might.

But the first time Nikko tried to go out the Lion Gate, to look closer at all these wonders, the sentries crossed their javelins in front of him, demanding his pass.

Nikko smiled, so as not to seem embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. It is my mistake.’ But anger burned like the morning coals under the smoke hole; smaller than a flame, but hotter. Was he the High King’s slave then, no matter what his luxury, with no more freedom than the lion cub on the King’s lap?

He turned to walk back up the road. A voice stopped him. ‘Let him through.’

Nikko looked up. The Chamberlain sat in an ebony chair, inlaid with silver, help up by four big guards, with two more holding a small canopy over him to shield him from the sun. He smiled down at Nikko. Nikko was surprised to find it looked a true smile, if a touch sardonic.

‘You mean I can go out whenever I want to?’

‘No. You may go out whenever His Majesty, may he live ten thousand years, does not require you to perform or do other duties, or when your tutor does not have
lessons for you. But apart from those times—yes, of course you are free.’ The Chamberlain raised an eyebrow, looking amused now. ‘Did you think you were a slave, boy?’

‘Am I?’

The Chamberlain laughed, then looked surprised at his own laughter. ‘Thank the gods you’re not a slave, boy, or you’d have been whipped for questioning me like that. You are no more a slave than I am. We both exist to serve the King.’

Nikko tried to read his expression. Perhaps, he thought, there are different kinds of slavery here in Mycenae.

‘Did you think I was your enemy?’

It was impossible to say yes. Nikko shrugged instead.

The Chamberlain gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. ‘I do my duty to the High King. Sometimes I make mistakes, as I did with you. Though,’ he added gently, ‘it was not a very great mistake, for the High King still has his Butterfly.’

‘Then I may go out the gates whenever I want to? When the King doesn’t need me,’ he added.

‘Yes. Go and explore, lad.’ He gave another of his inscrutable looks. ‘I explored once too, like you.’

‘Not any more?’

‘No, boy. The day came when I found serving the King meant more to me than anything outside the walls. But always remember,’ the look was serious now, ‘all the necklaces of gold, and emeralds, all the platters of dates and sesame pastries, mean less than the gift that you have now: time to look and wander, time to enjoy and not to
have to work. How many in our kingdom—how many in all the world—have freedom like yours? Remember who you owe it to, as well.’

‘To you?’ hazarded Nikko.

The Chamberlain smiled, a true smile this time. ‘No. To the High King.’

Nikko had got the answer wrong, but he could tell the Chamberlain was not displeased. The Chamberlain tapped on the side of his chair. His bearers carried him on, toward his duties to the King.

There was more to Nikko’s life now than exploring. They were not expected to perform more than once or twice each moon. The High King was aware how much work went into each performance. Thetis was a child, for all her genius, and tired easily. Perhaps the King didn’t want his new toy to grow stale either.

But there was still practice every morning, including the stretches needed to keep an acrobat or dancer limber, as well as acrobatics—leaping, catching, tumbling, somersaulting and the art of catching daggers, or juggling balls.

But they never practised the actual dance, the one they’d perform next for the High King. Each time Orkestres tried to tie Thetis to a routine she shook her head, and sat on the white stones of their hearth with her hands folded, staring up at the others to try to make them understand.

And finally they did. Thetis’s dance flowed from her according to the music, the feel of the audience, and other forces they could never guess. If she would have
spoken, perhaps she could have explained. But these days Thetis made no sound at all, not even a laugh, or mumbling in her sleep. At times Nikko wondered if her promise had wiped away whatever magic the hag had performed, and she truly had no voice, except the movements of her hands, her smile, the unspoken magic of her dance.

There were other lessons for them both, as well; lessons in manners and royal etiquette, now they lived so close to the High King. Nikko was learning to ride as any gentleman of Mycenae would do, even though he was not a gentleman, and was never asked to ride or hunt with the sons of Mycenae. When he rode, it was with his groom, or instructor, not a friend.

One other teacher came to him the afternoon after their first performance, unexpected by them all. It was the old blind harper from the night before, who had followed the music of his song. A young boy, dressed in a white kilt and a leopard-skin cloak, led him in, then vanished as the harper waved a hand to dismiss him.

Orkestres bustled out of his private room. He bowed low, though the old man could not have seen him with those eyes white as clouds. ‘My Lord Orpheus. You honour us with your presence.’

‘No honour intended.’ The old voice was steady and clear. ‘I am not here to visit, but to work.’ He turned, surprisingly accurately, in Nikko’s direction. ‘You have a good voice, boy, and you know how to listen to the earth’s song. But your voice will change soon. It may be years before it steadies so you can sing properly again. Your sister will need other music—and so will you.’

‘Why me?’

The old man smiled. His hair hung in white strands, like long-dead grass, as though he no longer bothered to plait and oil it. ‘How long has your mind loved music, eh? How long have you heard songs in the wind?’

Nikko didn’t answer.

The old man nodded. ‘Lead me to a stool, and sit beside me. I will teach you how to play the lyre—for I suspect I do not have years enough left in me to show you the harp—and when you have mastered that we will find a tortoise for you.’

‘A tortoise?’

‘Do not interrupt, boy. Do you know how old I am?

Nikko shook his head, then realised Orpheus couldn’t see. ‘No.’

‘One hundred and four years, boy, if you know how to count that much, as the Egyptians have taught us. Which means you have little time to learn what I have to teach you. Don’t let your mouth rob your ears. Now, we shall begin.

‘To make a lyre you need a tortoise shell and wood to rim it and help keep its shape, especially in humid weather. You need cat-gut strings—lion is the best—and you will need to know how to make them and thread them, as they break, just when you are about to play for the King of the Hyperboreans and there is no one there to give you new ones…Now, take the lyre, and run your fingers across the strings.’

It was as though Nikko had always known the music was there. Now, at last, he was learning how to control it and bring it forth.

Sometimes he thought the lessons with the harper were the happiest time of his life.

They never knew when the High King would call for them to dance. Sometimes it seemed he followed a whim; other times it was to impress a guest. Once or twice Nikko wondered if he called for Thetis because he was angry or upset. Those nights the noise from the feasting hall was subdued as they went in, as though none dared speak too loudly for fear of the King’s displeasure. But always when they had finished the King was smiling; the clouds lifted from the room, as though Thetis was a tiny sun evaporating the dew.

Their dance was never a long one, perhaps because Thetis was still too young to dream up a longer dance, or maybe she already knew that a short performance would leave her audience longing for more. The King seemed to accept the dances almost as an offering, and let Thetis determine how long they went on. But each time at the end of the dance her wings wafted across his throne.

She had many wings now. Silks traded from hand to hand, from camel to horse to long ship, until at last the cloth reached Mycenae, dyed in a hundred shades, gold threads, gold leaf pressed into the thinnest of woollen skeins.

Each time the crowd breathed the silence that was the greatest applause of all, before they cheered.

Sometimes Nikko wondered if his sister’s genius came from her lack of words; if she used to her body to communicate with the world.

There were other entertainers too, even on the nights they danced; the harper, boys with lutes and girls who danced in filmy costumes, acting out a story. Even the lords sang, sometimes, songs in honour of the King, or drinking songs, beating out the time with their goblets.

But all that summer, when there were important guests, kings who ruled their own lands but offered obedience—and tributes—to the High King of Mycenae, it was Thetis and Nikko who were called for.

It was common for a visiting king to present a gift to the performers he most admired. Thetis soon had brooches of silver, cloaks of leopard skin, a corn belt of turquoise. Even Nikko was sometimes offered a gift—for politeness, he thought, for he was just the rock his sister danced from.

But most gifts came from the High King—not only grand ones now, but smaller ones with thought behind them: a butterfly crafted in gold, a robe with butterflies embroidered on its hem, a gold cup, embossed with butterflies. One morning there was a gold cage holding a bright-feathered bird. Thetis stook it from the servant, smiling her thanks (the whole of Mycenae now seemed to accept the Butterfly never spoke).

For three mornings the bird sang, staring at the sky from its cage. On the fourth morning, when Nikko went into the main chamber to look for breakfast, he saw the cage door was open, and the bird had flown.

It was early summer, the sky high and blue, like a lord had thrown up a coloured cloak and it hung there above the earth. Nikko and Thetis danced on the High King’s walled terrace that afternoon, for the stones of Mycenae breathed heat. Down on the roads and in the lower houses it was almost as if the air was too thick to move. Only up on the palace heights was there a breeze.

Today the King sat not on his throne, but on a big chair of ebony, with lion feet. But this chair was high enough, on its dais, to see the fields and sea below: the world that he controlled.

The lion cub had vanished. Nikko didn’t know where. He supposed it had grown too big to be safe, had bitten the King, perhaps, with its baby teeth. The King sat with an empty lap now, his sword and spears by his side.

What did the King do when his pets grew too old? Nikko wondered. Was there a new lion pelt for the King’s bed?

There was no sign of Xurtis tonight; the lady had her own rooms and her duties in the temple. She joined them when she chose.

The harper began to play soft chords that could change according to the dance. Somehow the old man knew by
the sighs of the audience and the swish of Thetis’s robes what tempo and mood fitted her choreography.

Orkestres and Dora stood, as always, in the background. They were neither part of the dance nor servants nor guests at the feasts. But no one questioned their right to stand each night in the doorway, dressed in their finest kilts and most precious jewellery, their hair oiled, their faces made up as carefully as if they performed as well, breathing in the joy as the audience gasped at their proteges.

Nikko glanced at Thetis as they stood up gracefully from their first bow in front of the throne, trying to work out how she planned to begin the dance this afternoon, ready to catch as he was required. These days his role had been reduced to being there whenever Thetis needed him—to grab her ankles to steady her when she leaped onto his shoulders, to instinctively crouch and then push upward, to help launch her in her flights across the room.

Any leaps and somersaults on his part would have distracted attention from Thetis. She was the bright star, not him. But his role was was both demanding and essential. He had to follow Thetis’s every move; to anticipate where she’d need him next; to stand like a rock. The slightest stumble or slowness might mean that she would fall.

Thetis gave Nikko a tiny glance of warning, and then sprang, onto his shoulders first, then up onto the low stone wall that edged the terrace.

Round and round she spun, on one foot and then the other, her gauzy silk wings flying around her, as though she was encompassing the whole world for the King.

Then she soared down, but not to Nikko. She kneeled at the High King’s feet, and lifted up his sword, as though to present it to him.

The King gazed at her, puzzled. He smiled, and took the sword, holding it longways above his lap as Thetis indicated, resting the hilt and the tip of the blade on the arms of his chair.

Thetis began to spin in front of the throne, twirling and twirling the way Dora had taught her, keeping her head still while her body moved around, then jerking it to the front again, so she didn’t become giddy. Suddenly she stopped, placing her hands lightly on the arms of the ebony throne. She gave a slight swing, and suddenly she stood above the High King’s lap, her feet resting on his sword.

Nikko froze. If a drop of blood on a sword was enough to get a dancer killed, what would a drop of blood on the High King himself mean to them all?

The crowd breathed in, too stunned even to mutter, as Thetis crept to the tip end of the blade. Slowly, slowly she let her body droop down toward the sword, until at last she lay along its length, her wings covering the lap of the High King.

The music stopped. There was no noise on the terrace, no voice, not even breathing, just an eagle above, curious and peering down, and the soft mutter of the wind.

Thetis was so still Nikko wondered suddenly if she were dead, or had pierced herself with the sword but refused to move and show her agony. Then at last her face lifted, her body rose; she touched the arms of the
throne again, then somersaulted backward onto the floor before the King. Her body was bowed, but her face looked straight at him.

There was the usual moment of wonderment as the audience came slowly back from the enchantment of the dance, and then the gasps and the stamping and clapping of a crowd gone wild. But Nikko stared, struck dumb at the expression on his sister’s face.

This was no gift of love, of submission. He alone knew why Thetis had risked so much, had chanced her life to give the King the gift of that strange dance.

The High King ruled them with his sword, not by divine right or with his own skills. And Thetis had just told him so, told him the truth that no one else would say aloud. The whole court had seen it.

But of all the men in that room—the lords, the guards, the soldiers—only her brother understood.