Chapter 26The clangour of battle preparations fell silent as Aeneas stormed across the inner bailey, his purple cape sweeping behind him. The smiths and carpenters averted their gaze, keeping their eyes on their tools.
He kept his hand close to his sword, carried along by his rage. Already weight was gathering in his temples, the first pinpricks of pain behind his eyes. It slowed him down little. There was no way Mnestheos’s report could be true, and nothing would stop him from seeing it for himself.
Tarkhon intercepted Aeneas. He wore no armour this morning, but a sacred hood and apron. The sacrificial knife in his hand was wickedly sharp. ‘Son of the goddess. How may we—’
Aeneas pushed past the Etruscan, making for the wall of the inner bailey. He stopped short when he saw the cage wa
