Chapter 17‘He’s stirring.’
Did he know that voice?
Glimpses of the past few days rushed back. Every part of Aeneas had been on fire, worse than the night Troy fell. The fire had roared inside his flesh, flames emanating from his upper arm. Somebody had wiped his brow with a cool sponge, poured water down his throat.
‘Good. About time,’ said Beroe. ‘You’ve been tending him every day since we got aboard this accursed ship, Eumela.’
‘It’s my duty. He’s been very sick.’
‘So have lots of people. Didn’t you notice?’
‘Of course I have. I’ve been up to my elbows in the injured.’
‘And none of ‘em get half the attention Aeneas gets, do they? But I suppose this one’s not just any sickie, is he? No, he’s a royal.’
Eumela hesitated. ‘One does not speak ill of the king.’
‘Aye, but he’s not our
