The man coughed. ‘Old Anchises the shepherd?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He’s … dead.’
‘What?’
‘They buried him a couple months back.’
Hermes swore. He wondered if Aphrodite knew that her mortal lover had perished. ‘And his baby?’
The barkeep spluttered. ‘You mean Aeneas? He’s no babe. A man near twenty.’
Hermes frowned. Of course he was no longer a child. Mortal lives were so fleeting.
‘Where is he?’
The barkeep told him where Aeneas lived, and for this trouble Hermes tossed a drachma at the crumpled proprietor as he downed another cup of the terrible wine on his way out. He may be in disguise, but he would never let anyone claim he was not a benevolent god.
The barkeep’s directions took Hermes to an unsavoury part of town. Men with dirt-stained faces and hungry eyes leered from shadowed doorways, and women with exposed breasts and glazed expressions leant against peeling murals.
Hermes found the door he was looking for, barely more than a painted piece of driftwood rammed over the entrance, and knocked.
‘Who goes there?’ said a robust voice.
‘A friend.’
Footsteps echoed from inside, then the door creaked ajar. A young man pressed his face into the sliver of light pouring in from the street. A dark-brown eye framed with thick lashes appraised Hermes.
‘I must speak with Aeneas.’ He cursed inwardly as his voice creaked on the name. So much for sounding authoritative.
The face retreated, and the door opened to reveal a tall, lithe man, radiant with the first bloom of manhood. Hermes’ stomach twinged with jealousy. Then he took in the shape of the man’s eyes, the freckles peppering his nose and his shock of thick copper hair. His mother’s hair.
‘What can I do for you, lad?’ Aeneas asked.
Lad.
Fighting the urge to send him crashing through the interior of his hovel, Hermes strode past him.
‘You live here?’
Aeneas’ house consisted of a single room, a pallet on one side, a small hearth on the other, a single bowl and amphora resting beside it. He wrinkled his nose; the child of a goddess should not be living in a place like this.
‘Take off your cloak, friend,’ Aeneas closed the door. ‘I would offer you wine, but I’m afraid I have none.’
‘It’s fine,’ Hermes muttered. ‘I’ve had enough terrible Trojan wine for one day.’ He ignored Aeneas’ outstretched hand and reached inside his cloak. He retrieved the message Aphrodite had stowed in his pipes and pressed it into Aeneas’ hand.
‘The Goddess of Love watches over you, Aeneas.’
The young man unfurled the parchment, eyes widening as he read. ‘This cannot be. My father would have told me …’
‘It is true. You are the son of Aphrodite.’
Aeneas looked at Hermes, his face full of wonder.
‘Now,’ Hermes tapped his boot on the filthy floor, ‘you must leave the city at once.’
Aeneas pressed the parchment to his chest. ‘I cannot.’
