Chapter 23The battle was all but ended, the Latins and their allies in full retreat. Trojans and Arkadians and Etruscans milled about the battlefield, jabbing the surviving Italians. Ravens were everywhere, the metallic smell of blood on the air. Smoke curled over the field, men huddling around dying pyres for warmth.
The Battle of the Pyres. That’s what the rhapsodes would call this. A day long remembered in curse and song. Let the bards sing hymns to his victory.
A dead horse stared at him with blank eyes, flies already buzzing over its corpse.
People were calling out for help, moans rising from every corner. One of the wounded Arkadians asked for a blessing, but Aeneas ignored him. He would hear only one prayer. Keening, desperate, needy. He knew whose call reached into his mind.
Ae
