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horsemen—a lot of good that would do down this rat hole; Phormion, called Ant for his strength, who wanted no part but proved doughtiest of all; and my cousin Io’s boy, Mandrocles, a lad of great courage but who couldn’t swim. You’ll see how this figures soon enough.
    We wriggled down. The first twenty feet was close, but we could stand; daylight still filtered in. Ant took the lead and called back what was coming. It got tighter. We had to crab sidewise, then stoop; after that it was all fours, like miners; then belly-down like a snake. We spooled a rope marked in feet. At a hundred Ant balked. “This hole’s going nowhere, Sar’nt.” He was so close ahead I could touch the soles of his feet but fear made him shout. I poked him on. The shaft must lead somewhere or there wouldn’t be steps at the entrance. “This ain’t the mouth, Sar’nt, it’s the asshole.”
    Ant crabbed on, nursing a lighted taper. “A cavern, mates!” We spilled like turds onto a sand flat before a lake of bitumen, a bowshot across. A gallery rose thirty feet above us. There was a tar beach, wide enough for two score to stand. I ordered all to hold, not to foul any spoor. The lake was tar, thick as broth. Little falls of naphtha cascaded into it. Glyphs painted the walls, not animals or men but spirals and rosettes, magic signs.
    â€œIs this the Underworld, sir?”
    â€œYes, and I’m the Hound of Hell.”
    Sandal treads showed in the torch flare. A woman and a girl. You tell a print’s freshness by edges fallen in. But in the tar the walls held sharp as if carved in stone.
    â€œCould be ten days or ten minutes.”
    They had been here, Selene and Europa, that seemed certain. Who else would wriggle into this hellhole?
    â€œDid they cross the lake, sir?” Ant asked.
    â€œThey didn’t fly,” answered Colt.
    â€œThen do we have to cross too?”
    I ordered all to scan the walls for sign.
    â€œAmazon!”
    Mandrocles cried this, making all jump from their skins. But he was only playing for the echo. His mates cursed him and laughed as men will with relief from fright. The oldest was twenty-two. They began spooking each other for fun, fancying beasts in the bowels of the lake.
    â€œHow deep, you reckon?”
    â€œStep in and find out.”
    Then: a sound.
    â€œWhat was that?”
    From across the lake.
    â€œSounded like a horse.”
    â€œYou’re cracked!”
    â€œLike hooves on stone.”
    All listened, breathless.
    â€œIf it is a horse,” Colt offered, “it’s a hell of a sprat, eking through that crack we just crabbed through!”
    None dared voice the obvious: the cavern might have another entrance. Across the lake.
    I called Selene’s name.
    No answer.
    Again, identifying myself: “Selene, do you have Europa?”
    Nothing. I ordered the men to hold their torches clear of the surface and follow across the lake. I probed in calf-deep, waist-deep; then the bottom dropped away. Ant followed, then Colt; the others were too scared to stay behind. We swam, shields propelled like skiffs before us, javelins and brands atop. Mandrocles clung to Ironhead, dog-paddling. The distance must have been a hundred feet. We came out soaked in tar to our beards. The smoke from our torches smudged the ceiling. Suddenly winged harpies thundered by the thousands. Bats. The men plunged in terror as the flock shrieked from the vault. It took eternities, it seemed, to recover breath. The banshees had fled deeper into the cave—or toward an egress we had yet to discover.
    â€œHave a look ahead, Colt.”
    â€œWhat, alone?”
    â€œGive it a squint.”
    â€œYou’re the sar’nt, Sar’nt. You go.”
    â€œI am the sergeant. And I’m telling you to go.”
    We groped on, along curtains of stalactite. A scream. Colt’s brand had lit his oil-soaked beard. We pressed about him, beating