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an excursion, Membricus,” he said, grinning at the grey-haired man, “but, rather, a punishment for whatever sins Brutus has catalogued against us these past few years.”
    They all laughed, then Brutus helped Membricus to rise.
    “You know well enough why we are here,” he said, and both his companions grunted their agreement. Late on the morning that Brutus had announced that Artemis meant them to rebuild Troy, they’d boarded their warships and sailed south. Now the warships lay at anchor in a shallow inlet that Hicetaon said was less than a half-day’s walk from Mesopotama, and Brutus had brought his two companions to this vantage point.
    “Where is it?” Brutus asked softly, shading his eyes with a hand. Of the three men, he was the only one not sweating heavily.
    Hicetaon scanned the coastline that stretched south, then pointed. “There,” he said. “Follow the line of the coast to that bay, then look to the southern shore of the bay. There is a hill, and—”
    “Atop that hills sits Mesopotama,” said Brutus. “Aye, I see it.”
    Membricus, who had the oldest eyes, was squinting painfully under the shade of his hand. “It is well fortified,” he said, noting the high wall that encircled the entire city and the single-gated entrance.
    “And rich,” added Brutus. “See the roof of the palace at the very pinnacle of the hill? It gleams with gold.”
    “Trojan gold, no doubt,” said Hicetaon bitterly.
    “It will be soon,” said Brutus, and all three men laughed again, relaxing in the shared warmth of their companionship.
    “There are some workshops but very few dwellings outside the walls,” said Hicetaon.
    “Aye,” said Brutus. “The Trojan slaves, however many are left, must be sequestered behind those walls. To free them, we shall have to take the city.”
    Hicetaon turned and looked at Brutus, raising his eyebrows.
    Brutus shrugged. “That is a city full of Dorian Greeks, my friends,” he said. “When have they ever won a battle against true warriors?”
    “You want to storm the walls?” Hicetaon said.
    Brutus shook his head. “I think not. At least, not with warriors. With a little cunning, I think to draw out this arrogant Pandrasus. This is a sheltered city—there can be no other reason it has survived so long the Catastrophe—and I am thinking that maybe the Dorians of Mesopotama have grown a little soft in that isolation.”
    “Is that a river I see emptying into the bay?”
    Startled, Brutus and Hicetaon looked at Membricus. He’d been so quiet they’d almost forgotten his presence.
    “Aye,” said Hicetaon, and something in his tone made both the other men stare at him in turn.
    “It is the River Acheron,” Hicetaon said. He should have mentioned it sooner. He really should, but how does one ever break bad news?
    There was a momentary silence, then…
    “The Acheron?” Brutus said. “One of the rivers that leads to Hades’ Underworld.”
    “Aye,” Hicetaon said unhappily.
    Membricus stared at Hicetaon, then looked back to the view of the city. For some reason the distant city seemed clearer now, more in focus, and Membricus could easily make out the river winding its sinuous way from a distant gorge, through the valley system bounded by steep wooded hills, past the fortified city atop its hill, and then emptying into the bay.
    Something thick and corrupt coiled about his belly, and he moaned.
    Hicetaon made as if to reach out to him, but Brutus, sharp-eyed, held him back.
    Wait , he mouthed at Hicetaon.
    Membricus drew in a deep, horrified breath. There was something dark crawling down the river, a great cloud that, as it reached the city, settled over it like a heavy, angry hand over the delicate crown of a baby’s head.
    “There is darkness there!” he gasped.
    “What do you see?” Brutus said.
    Membricus cried out, but Brutus’ voice had broken his vision, and as he sucked in several lungfuls of air his face cleared of horror, although it remained